3 Thunderbirds Are Go: Interlude
by Math Girl
Summary: While visiting their ranch for training and recreation, the Tracy family is put to the ultimate test by a sudden intrusion.
1. Chapter 1

Hi, there! Me, again. Taking a brief side-trip, before getting back to the main story. Thank you for reading. Obviously, I don't own these guys, but they're a lot of fun to spend time with. =)

 **Thunderbirds Are Go: Interlude**

 **1**

 _Gran Roca Ranch, Wyoming Territory, in the former United States-_

The night was getting cold. Scott Tracy sat on a threadbare couch in the living room (which Grandma still called the parlor). His sock feet were propped up on an old wooden coffee table, and he leaned back with his hands behind his head. Hadn't turned the lights on or lit a fire, because he preferred to relax there in moonlit darkness, listening to Virgil play. Just sitting around, staring through the big window.

No special music; his brother was simply riffing, playing bits of this and that, composing to the night and the moonglow. Virgil tended to turn whatever he heard and saw… even rows of blackbirds perched on a barbed wire fence… into melody.

Scott had been nursing a beer for over an hour. He wasn't in a hurry to get buzzed, or anything… just wanted to dull the edge, a little. Let the day's stress roll away. Times like these, Scott turned off his mind, drank a few beers, and did nothing but watch the night. Sometimes came up with poetry, as a way to process all that had happened.

Virgil achieved the same effect by spending hours at Mom's old piano, letting the music take him away. John always lit out for the stables; would spend the night there, if his brothers didn't drag him back out for family time, and something to eat. As for Kayo, she was off prowling the gulches and ridgelines, being wild and uncatchable. John could be ordered back. The girl would return when she felt like it.

Gordon was over in their detached garage, messing with Granddad's battered red truck. Swore he'd have the thing running again, soon. Recalling all those rides he and John had taken in that gas-burning monster, Scott had to smile. He couldn't drive an old-style stick shift, himself, although John claimed that it was extremely simple, in principle. If Gordon _did_ get it running once more, the astronaut was going to have to put his money where his mouth was, and actually drive the d*mn thing. If they could get him away from the horses, that is.

Alan wasn't hard to find, either, being up in what had always been called "the boys' room", playing ancient video games on a handheld device. Grandma didn't like screen time, out here, but she and Penny had gone into town for supplies and party stuff, so she wasn't around to scold the kid. Parker had gone with the ladies; as body guard, rather than driver. Out here, Grandma Tracy drove _herself._

Brains was down in the lab with Max, meanwhile, planning tomorrow's challenges. The engineer got no more rest here than he did on the island, but that was his choice, and Scott had no sympathy.

He took another long pull at his beer, which had gone bitter and flat, but still made him feel good. Scott stretched a bit, arching his back and slowly flexing the tension away. Virgil, still playing, said softly,

"Think Dad 'll come by?"

Scott didn't look over. Kept his tired blue eyes on the full Moon, as it glided up past the tall, jagged east ridge. He'd be twenty-eight years old, in just two days. Pushing thirty, _hard._ Finishing the last of his beer, he set it down on the low table with a slight _click._

"Maybe," Scott replied. "Depends on how busy he is. The World Council keeps him pretty well chained to his desk. You know that, Virge."

The music's mood shifted. From light and rambling, to faded threnody.

"It's like he's around… but he isn't," said the big pilot, with quiet stubbornness. "I mean, we got him back, in a way."

Scott shrugged. Considered another beer, then decided against it. Not worth a fuzzy head, in the morning; not with Brains up half the night, plotting worst-case scenarios. End-of-existence disasters were bad enough, without throwing in a hangover.

"At least he's alive, Virge, and only a phone call away. Could be worse. Was _hella_ bad, for six whole years."

His peaceful mood shattered, Scott sighed, gave himself another stretch, and sort of an all-over shake. Then, he got to his feet, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand.

"C'mon," he grunted, turning to face his shadowy brother. "Let's go get John. I promised Grandma I'd feed everybody, and that includes Ponyboy, out there."

The musical background changed its tone, again. Virgil had two playing modes. He could _become_ the music, just soaring off somewhere, while his hands and right brain did their thing. Or, he could talk and interact, letting the piano reveal his moods. Now it had shifted to playful and fast. He said,

"It was pizza yesterday, so that means… let's see… hot dogs and canned beans, tonight."

Scott leaned down for a couch pillow and threw it at him, nailing the top of Virgil's head. The house defenses arrested the pillow before it could wreak any further havoc, using forcefields and laser tracking to stop the thing in midflight. Scott hardly noticed.

"Shut up, Wise-ass. It's food. You'll eat it, and like it, or no dessert."

A serious threat, since the caretaker had left a big chocolate cake in the refrigerator, as a welcome-back gift. Keeping Alan away from the thing was a full-time job.

Virgil chuckled. The piano emitted three loud, clashing chords, like this: _duhn, duhn, DUHN!_ And then, no more music. Scott heard him push back his bench, and close a folding cover over the piano keys, then give the instrument a fond pat. After a moment, Virgil stood up; just a hulking silhouette in silver-brushed darkness. Good-naturedly, he pointed out,

"Better put some boots on, Scott. If you ruin another pair of socks, or track up the house, Grandma 'll have kittens. Then, she'll tell Brains that we aren't being challenged enough, and he'll kick up the scenario, again."

Scott grunted. What happened in holographic simulation was backed up by extremely realistic weather effects and powerful machinery. He was still exhausted from the day's Mars Colony rescue sim, which they'd failed the first time through. Got only seventy-two percent on the second go-round… except for John. The astronaut had received a fifty-eight percent rating… and a stern lecture… for getting himself "killed" going after the base commander, who'd clearly been beyond help.

Once his boots were on, Scott led the way through the creaky old screen door and out onto the front porch. Was scanned and identified in the process; would be tracked relentlessly throughout their property. He'd grabbed a sheepskin jacket on his way out, because on a night of diamond stars and searchlight Moon, the temperature was falling fast. Got an extra for John, since his brother wouldn't have thought of it.

Together, he and Virgil ambled out to the stables, hands in their pockets, breath misting. Still enveloped in music, too, as Virge had started to hum. The caretaker's dogs… a couple of brindle deerhounds… appeared from the barn to lope along beside them, tails wagging, breath steaming, but not making a sound. Too well trained.

Scott didn't have any treats, but Virgil never left the house without something to offer, and was soon flanked by This'un and That'un. Smiling, Scott crossed the stony, weedy distance from house to stables, taking in deep lung-fulls of cold, dry air. Granddad had smoked like a powerplant, claiming that some nights, a cigarette was all that kept him from freezing. But he'd threatened to tan their hides and stretch them out on the woodshed to cure, if he ever caught the boys lighting up. Scott missed the smell, though, and their grandfather's deep, growling voice.

Virgil stopped humming as they neared the snug wood and stone stable.

"Could you see living out here?" he asked. "As in, permanently?"

Scott looked at his brother, then around at tall, rocky spires, twisted sagebrush and scrub pine. At the house, cozy behind them in its faint blue shielding. At the twining, tail-wagging hounds and moonlit sky.

"Someday," he said. "But we'd need to put in an airstrip. I can't live without flying, Virge."

"And a pool, for Gordon," Virgil suggested, getting into the notion. But, Scott shook his head.

"He wouldn't stay. Too far from the ocean, and he doesn't have all our memories, here. Just a vacation spot, as far as he and Al are concerned. Never was _home,_ for them." Just like Virgil didn't remember Kansas. That was him, and John… a little.

Virgil grunted, then changed the subject.

"Scott… if you ever had kids… would you want them to do this? What we do?"

The first pilot stopped walking to glance at his big younger brother.

"You mean, put our ass on the line, day after day, to 'save the world'?" he asked. Then, when Virgil nodded. "I dunno, Virge… not if they didn't _want_ to, I guess. But, um… I don't think I'll have any kids."

Virgil kicked at a stone, seeming troubled. One of the hounds… That'un, probably… whined softly and pushed her long nose into his hand.

"Only reason I ask is, today, when John died…"

"Yeah," Scott finished for him, staring bleakly up at the Moon. From John's perspective, it would have been only a sim crash, with the words _'Critical Failure'_ in glowing red letters. The rest of them had gotten the works; a full, horribly vivid death scene, complete with ravaged corpse. "That was pretty intense."

Virgil nodded again and messed with the dogs, his dark eyes shadowed by memory.

"It's just… if Em and me ever have kids… I mean, she wants a few, and who knows? We might get a permit… I dunno if I could stand having them put in that kind of danger, on the reg. You know?"

Scott tried considering things from Dad's angle, pushing away the suddenly restless dogs. At last, he said,

"Maybe it's different, if you have a lot of kids, and they're all boys. Maybe then, it's just an adventure."

"Why only boys?" came a new voice; soft and feline, from out of the darkness. It was Kayo, slipping alongside without warning, as usual. Graceful and poised as a dancer in her boots, leggings and jacket.

"Dammit, Kay!" Scott snapped, "Stop _doing_ that! We're nearly always armed, out here, and you could…"

"Could what?" their sister demanded playfully, a sly smile on her beautiful face. "Dodge your bullet, and then feed you the gun?"

Virgil snorted with laughter. He'd sparred enough with Tanusha to know that she meant what she said.

"Speaking of feed," he cut in, "Scott's about to sacrifice another pack of hotdogs on the altar of broken dreams… aka gas grill. Want to help us snag John? He listens to you."

Kayo had come close enough to pet the dogs, and muss the hair of both tall young men.

"I'll do my best," she said, "but he may not be hungry. We had pizza rolls for lunch, after all."

And _nobody_ liked Scott's cooking. Yeah. Great. He got it. A cold, shifting wind brought them the scent of horses and sweet feed. There was a little light from the fogged-up stable window, casting a pale-yellow square on the ground. They heard a few low whickers as Summer, Apollo, Billy and Apple sensed their approach. This'un barked in reply, very softly. That'un just wagged her long, brushy tail; managing to trot and undulate like a snake, at the same time.

Together, Scott, Virgil and Kayo pushed through the stable doors and went on inside, followed by a pair of lean, brindle deerhounds. Horses snorted and whickered in greeting, expecting treats and immediate attention.

John looked over a stall door as they walked in. He'd been currying Apple. The strawberry roan mare butted her head against his shoulder, displeased by the interruption. She was Apple 5, actually. Not the fifth horse he'd owned, but he liked prime numbers.

John started to say something, but Scott wasn't inclined to put up with nonsense, that night. He cut the astronaut off and threw him a jacket, saying,

"Supper time. Wash up, and let's go."

John glanced in the direction of the house, frowning a little. Like Scott, he was blue-eyed, but more aquamarine, than sapphire.

"I don't smell anything burning," he said, innocently. "Anyway, I'm not hungry. I had…"

"Nobody cares," Scott snapped. "If I have to cook, you by God have to eat it. Now, _move."_

John's expression shifted from mild annoyance to stubborn frost, never a good sign. Then, Kayo opened the stall door, strolled in, rubbed her face against Apple's warm neck, and took John's hand.

"Don't forget the cake," she murmured. "Once Alan finds out that nobody's guarding it, he'll demolish the whole thing. We'll have nothing left for dessert but crumbs."

Virgil had been ambling down the row of stall doors, greeting each horse in turn, and having his gelled hair nibbled affectionately at every stop. Now, he turned back, grinned and said,

"Besides, even if he somehow burns w _ater_ extra crispy, Scott's still a better cook than Grandma. No one's gotten sick, yet." Which was a fact. Still, John hesitated.

"Maybe I'll just…"

"No," Scott cut him off. "You'll stop arguing, wash up, get your ass inside, and eat enough to stay alive. Virgil, you round up Gordon. Supper's gonna happen, whether anyone wants it, or not."

Turned out to be not that bad, because (though he wouldn't admit it) Scott had been studying videos. With his apprehensive brothers gathered around the kitchen table, and Kayo hovering, Scott dished up hotdogs fried in butter, and big scoops of warmed-over beans, plus ketchup. There was peanut butter and sliced bread, too, just in case.

Scott knew he'd made a breakthrough when Gordon and Alan asked for seconds, and John only slipped part of his food to the waiting dogs. Virgil, of course, just shut up and ate. It was warm and bright in the small kitchen. Sort of cozy; almost like it had been, back when Mom and Granddad were still around.

Just before the cake was brought out, golden-haired Alan looked up from his plate and said, almost casually,

"That was some training sesh, huh?"

Silence followed the statement, for just a moment. There was sort of an unwritten rule about no shop-talk at supper. Grandma's rule, really… only, she wasn't there to enforce it.

Gordon scraped up the last of his bean juice with a slice of bread, then devoured the lot in two bites. His beard was gone, having been half-shaved in the night by a mischievous Alan. He'd had no choice but to take off the rest, himself, and was awaiting a chance to get even.

"Didn't think it was fair, myself," he mused leaning forward to reach for more bread. "I mean… it was kind of a set-up, when you think about it. Pete McCord is a friend. If that had been Buddy and Ellie in the sim… or Brandon, Lee or Conrad, any of _us_ would have gone barreling in there, too."

Virgil scowled.

"Maybe that's the point," he said. "Maybe it's supposed to teach us that some situations _can't_ be fixed, and we'd just get killed if we tried."

Scott had risen from his seat at the head of the table to fetch that chocolate cake from the refrigerator. He returned and plopped it down on the table, glaring around to stop all those boarding-house reaches. Now, slicing cake onto plates and handing them out, he said,

"There's a such thing as _too_ real. I didn't like it. Yeah, put on the spot, like that, probably _any_ of us would have gone in when we shouldn't have… and it's something we gotta work on, but, um…"

He thumped down onto his wooden seat, then picked up his mug and gulped hot coffee.

"…There's better ways to be taught." He could still hear John's urgent message, and that choked-off, last cry. Then, the explosion and fire.

The red-haired astronaut, very much alive and well, merely shrugged.

"I thought I could make it," he said. "Just because Pete wasn't answering, didn't mean he was dead. _I_ wouldn't want to be left."

Kayo had squeezed onto the chair beside John, intending to eat half his cake. She bumped him with her left shoulder before tucking in.

"What we need to do," she said, around a mouthful, "is work out a plan to beat the next doomsday scenario that involves someone we care about. Today's sim targeted one of us. I'll bet tomorrow's will, too, but if we do this right…"

"It'll get confronted by all of us, working together," Virgil cut in, beginning to smile. Brains was his friend, but that didn't mean that he couldn't have fun tricking the devious little bastard. Everyone looked at Scott, who was finishing coffee and cake like a starving man. At last, he stretched and leaned back in his straight-backed chair, yawning till his jaw cracked.

"We'll need some code words," he decided. "To communicate our situations without tipping off the 'test proctor'. Also, some in-system fail-safes, and that means hacking. John, can you get in there, tonight, and cross a few wires?"

His brother cocked a red-golden eyebrow.

"I could tie them in a square-knot… or the digital equivalent, thereof. Tell me what you have in mind."

Scott grinned, flashing a pair of wicked dimples.

"Okay, guys," he said, motioning his siblings in closer. "Here's how we're gonna beat Hackenbacker at his own game…"

Except, of course, that Brains wasn't the _only_ one running the system. Not anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi, there! Many thanks to Bow Echo, WhatHaveWeDone and Tikatu for their kind words and reviews. Also to those who have read and favorited. You guys are awesome! =)

 **2**

 _The ranch, Wyoming Territory, early next morning-_

After breakfast (coffee or milk, with cereal, toast and halfway-decent bacon) they suited up and gathered down in the main testing area, under the house. Scott was a little nervous, and showed it in the way that he paced the room and snapped at his siblings. John was quiet; sort of tired, having been up late/ early slipping nasty, backdoor subroutines into Brains' testing computer. He just stood there in uniform, apparently lost in thought, sometimes talking with Kayo.

Virgil stretched, then did pushups, finding time to pat everyone's back and offer encouragement. Gordon performed a handstand and clowned around, at one point even juggling napkins filched from breakfast, just to make people smile. He was cocky and boastful, was Gordon. After all, their plan was bullet-proof, right? If the 'Big Three' had come up with it, what could go wrong?

As for Alan, he bounced on his toes, swinging his arms back to front, repeatedly. Mostly, he just wanted not to screw up, or look stupid. To not heave all his breakfast, right there on the testing room floor. _Everyone_ was older, stronger and more experience than he was. Kayo would be watching him, and she was almost nineteen; so beautiful, she hurt to look at. He was horribly jealous of whatever she focused on or touched, especially John… even though they weren't, y'know, _doing_ it. But, she'd slip over and greet her tall, red-haired brother by bumping against him with her shoulder. Then, the two of them would stand close together, and whisper. Alan wanted to stop that exclusive closeness. To bust in, but he didn't know how. Instead, he just looked away, and made like it all didn't matter. Then,

"G- Good morning, my, ah… my f- friends! I trust th- that you have slept well, and are, ah… are r- ready to test your skills against my new assistant and l- latest scenario?"

Brains sounded positively chipper. His holographic image beamed at them all, seeming to face each audience member, no matter where they were standing. In the background, they could hear Max beeping and trilling a coded message of his own. Virgil smiled, because he and the re-purposed probe had talked awhile, the night before. Call it a little extra insurance. No, he couldn't plan like Scott, or code like John… but he had his own ways and means, and a genuine ally in Max. His train of thought was derailed when Scott, frowning slightly, answered the smug engineer.

"Ready when you are. Let's do this."

Hackenbacker smiled warmly.

"Th- That is the spirit, Scott! I admire y- your tenacity in the face of my unbeatable ch- challenge! Now, if you will each just, ah… just s- step into your individual training rooms, we shall b- begin with a physical test of the skills r- required for your particular specialties."

Around that vast central arena, chimes sounded, and widely-spaced doorframes lit up. Each portal featured a bright flashing number, or the letter 'S'. They gathered briefly, bumped fists, and then parted; each to their own private corner of hell.

Up in the control room, meanwhile, Brains turned to Max, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and said,

"I th- think that they will, ah… will t- truly appreciate my latest efforts, M- Max. I have, ah… have p- pulled out all of the stops, as it w- were."

Max chirped non-committally, being rather torn, at the moment. Virgil Tracy, his second favourite organic entity, had requested assistance, placing Max in a difficult position; like having one tread stuck in the air, grinding vainly at nothing, while he struggled to right himself. Then, matters got worse. The Doctor had been working for many cycles to perfect another assistant, with better hardware and processing speed. Now, he patted a sleek, silver bot and said,

"M- Max, I believe that this, ah… this w- would be the ideal t- time to test out your 'brother'. B- Braman would surely add a m- measure of surprise to th- the scenario, and prove that John is, ah… is not the only one who can write intelligent, self-willed c- code."

Max emitted a long, outraged Squawk.

"Oh, n- no, Max," Brains cried out, not concerned with who else might be listening. With a flourish, he unlocked the brand-new robot's intelligence, adding, "Y- You are my first creation, and will always be, ah… be m- my proudest accomplishment, my best friend! You, like the Tracys, are m- my family. Anything else w- would be merely a servant!"

Braman, newly awakened, craned a sleek head on its slim, bird-like neck. The thing about mechanicals was, they grew up fast, and first impressions were critical. Indelible, too. The new assistant's lenses flared red, suddenly. Then, they simply winked out, leaving a very puzzled Hackenbacker wondering what had gone wrong.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 1, the testing arena-_

Scott Tracy lifted his chin, squared those broad shoulders, and strode on into his test chamber. A fingerprint scan admitted him to the grey metal room, which was approximately the size of a football pitch and high-ceilinged, in proportion. His jetpack and helmet leaned casually against the near wall.

Off in squint-distance, he saw a small platform moving back and forth, up and down, like something out of a videogame. On it was a glowing red button; his goal. The far wall had been altered to contain what looked like hundreds of laser-tracked projectile launchers, and one giant fan. Also, flashing like a billboard, a great, big countdown clock, showing three minutes. Scott's crystal blue eyes widened. He reached down for his helmet and jetpack, just as the fan roared to life.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 2-_

John didn't mind being '2'. It was the only even prime number, after all; tasting like cinnamon, with the texture of horsehide in winter. Shaggy, sort of.

He did mind walking into a trap, which was exactly what this felt like, despite all that planning. Because his suit had full gloves, John's testing chamber unlocked with a retinal scan, rather than fingerprints. He looked into the light, heard a brief, sharp _ping_ … and then the door hissed open.

The astronaut took a deep breath before stepping through. He'd screwed up by the numbers, yesterday; intended to do better, today. React less, think more. Crap like that.

Entering the metal-walled room, he saw a vast, bottomless chasm, spanned by a ribbon-like catwalk. On the other end, about a hundred yards away, was his helmet. Behind that, on the far wall, a digital countdown clock. His suit began constricting as Eos attempted communication in Morse squeeze code. Something about robots, and a grapple gun. John shook his head. He already knew Eos could solve all his problems for him, but she wasn't supposed to be here.

"No interference," he whispered and tapped, on one side of his uniform leg. "That's an order. This part, I'm doing, myself."

Maybe she protested, but John didn't notice, being completely distracted by a loud and terribly familiar noise; vacuum pumps, ripping his air right out of the room.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 3-_

Virgil Tracy was a cheerful sort; generally calm and optimistic. He expected good things from the world, like he expected to find and rescue those hostage kids. Also, Brains and Max were his friends. Deep down, Virgil did not anticipate more than he could handle.

Confidently, the big guy placed his fingertips on the scanner plate by door number three, then sauntered in when it opened. This time, his room wasn't all that large, but very high, with an oddly slanted back wall, like an ultra-steep ramp. One of his chunky green exo-suits had been parked by the door. An older model, it had power, but not much speed. Okay…

Looking up to the far-off top of that ramp, Virgil saw a flashing red button, like the kind you had to press, after reaching the end of a rock-climbing wall. He grinned for an instant, because if all he had to do was put on his suit and scale a ramp, he'd be through this in no time. That's when a buzzer sounded, the clock started up, and dozens of huge, heavy blocks thundered down.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 4-_

One of the main reasons Gordon loved having an audience was because performing… playing a role… kept him from getting too worried. Even in Thunderbird 4, he updated his webpage near constantly, letting his hungry fans know that, of _course,_ the G-man could handle this.

In a room like the one he'd let himself into, though, alone but for Brains' hidden cameras, Gordon was robbed of his crowd. He had no one to play to, or clown for. All at once, he was just a guy. A muscle-head surfer dude, facing trouble, alone.

Suddenly nervous as h*ll, he was the first to check out their new system. Tapped the 'secret knock' on his wrist comm, like this: _duhn-dah-dah-duhn-duhn… DUHN… DUHN,_ and then whispered,

"Status check?"

A horde of harsh, panted replies came in, sounding like music to one lonely aquanaut.

"Straight and level."

"Green across the board."

"F*ckin' A, Bubba!"

"All systems go, Bro!"

"Good, thanks. You?"

Gordon smiled, feeling better for hearing their voices.

"Ready to rock," he responded, in the agreed-upon code phrase. Maybe he should have paid more attention to the testing room, though, because its abrupt, wild tilt and cold seawater flood caught him _completely_ off guard.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 5-_

Alan Tracy paused long enough to look over one shoulder and give his siblings a jaunty wave. They were all too busy to notice, though, heading off for trials of their own. Being the only one still in school, really (Gordon's online water-whatever degree didn't count) Alan knew _all_ about tests. Actually, he wished he could have more of _this_ kind, instead of, say, an algebra quiz or writing exam. Couldn't they just, like, scan his brain for smartness, or something? Why did he have to keep studying boring crap that nobody even cared about?!

He'd worked up a serious pout by that time, stomping into the room after his retinal scan, without really looking around. There was a pilot-like chair, so he sat in it, and was immediately enveloped in some sort of bluish, flickering force bubble. A console slid up from the floor in front of his seat, forming a cockpit, complete with viewscreen and rocket controls.

"Cool!" Alan sang out. "It's just like Thunderbird 3!" (which still smelt of corn chips and fart). There were even two long, jointed mechanical arms out front.

"Dude, Man… I'm loving this! Bring it on!" Next, he heard Gordon through his wrist comm, whispering,

"Status check?"

"All systems go, Bro!" Alan called over, having the time of his life.

"Ready to rock!" his brother shot back, sounding relieved.

Then the room shifted, becoming outer space, bleak and cold. Only, with asteroids tumbling at him like a silent rockslide, and a butt-ugly nuclear contact-mine drifting his way.

"Crap, oh, crap, oh, _crap!"_ Alan blurted, seizing the rocket controls with one splayed hand, and a mechanical arm-grip with the other.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 'S'-_

Kayo expected trouble, and the toughest challenge that Brains could dish out. Unlike her brothers, who were accustomed to depending on their gear and their Birds, Tanusha relied on herself. Her powerful body, swift reflexes and newly found 'mind tricks' were all that she needed to face Hackenbacker's worst trial, whatever it was.

So, sashaying up to the scanner, she blew it a kiss before placing her fingertips on the pad. Its lock pinged brightly just once, and then the door opened before her. Head up, expression scornful and proud as any Kyrano's, the girl stalked within. At first, she saw nothing special; another door on a far-off metal wall, and a glowing key of some sort, hanging from a hook in the distance. There was a huge countdown clock on the ceiling above her, set to run backward from five minutes.

Kayo scowled, her jewel-green eyes narrowing fiercely. Then walls sprang up, and roving spy-eyes appeared in midair, while armed metal guardians began lurching around on a series of high, narrow walkways; all of them conjured from quantum nothing by Brains.

The walls and sudden walkways formed a vast maze swarming with defenses. Tanusha dropped into a crouch, reaching out with her mind to feel through the labyrinth. There were alcoves here and about, placed in such a way as to hide one from view of the spy-eyes.

Clearly, she was meant to run the maze, like Theseus, find that d*mn key, and then open the opposite door. Simple… except that the clock was already ticking, and something big was headed her way.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 1-_

Scott struggled into his helmet and jetpack. Got both small engines lit up with a key press. Noticed that his fuel was low. Naturally.

A shrieking, battering gale rose up. Like a tornado, this mechanical storm-wind tried to hurl the pilot backward and pin him against a wall. Scott couldn't let it. He had less than three minutes to reach that bobbing platform and press the button; wind, or no wind.

With jets on full, he launched himself into the air, trying to stay level with the platform. Projectiles hissed past all around him; some rod-shaped and blunt, some sticky and spherical. Scott soon learnt to avoid them. The 'spears' hurt like h*ll when they struck, knocking him wildly off course. The 'balls' clung fast, wrecking his aerodynamics, and giving that windstorm more surface to push against. But ducking the missiles, moving forward, and staying in line with his goal were tough by themselves, much less all at once.

Every time he failed to match the platform's gyrations, another wave of screaming projectiles was launched at him.

"Has to… be some kind of… _urf..._ pattern!" he grunted to himself, just before 'Point Break' (Gordon) called for a status check.

"Straight and level!" Scott barked in reply. Then a hurtling steel rod struck his helmet, smashing the faceplate to shards.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 2-_

The chamber was entirely sealed, except for those vacuum pump vents. As the countdown clock began ticking off from three minutes, John felt pressure on one side of his suit, and whirled to look in that direction. A grapple gun had appeared on the metal floor at his side.

Pressure was dropping, fast; just like the time he'd been trapped by the Hood. Might've been cheating, but he scooped up the gun because… yeah, why not? Then, he pivoted to face that narrow… _sh*t!_ Could swear that the catwalk had started to corkscrew. Right in front of him, John's path was becoming a spiral.

"Whatever, Tracy," he ordered himself. "F*cking _move!"_

When Gordon gave their secret knock and called,

"Status check?"

…he snapped,

"Green across the board!"

…and took off running. Magnetic boot soles made it harder to move, but kept him on the surface. Then gravity began acting up. Between one ringing step and another, while gasping at mountain-thin air, John was crushed to the catwalk by Jupiter-level gravitation.

He struggled back to all fours, then managed to stand, with the suit at full power. His ears were throbbing, especially the one that had burst on him, before. Kept moving, because he had to reach his helmet before time ran out, or fail another test.

The pump noise had dropped to a whisper. Not a good sign. Then gravity did a 180, suddenly plunging from gas giant to asteroid, just as he tried a leap forward. Like a comet, John Tracy shot off that catwalk and into the vanishing air.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 3-_

The countdown clock started ticking. Virgil heard, "Status check!" after their code knock. Sounded like Gordon. More cheerfully than the situation called for, he whooped,

"F*ckin' A, Bubba!" and leapt onto that crazily-tilted ramp. Giant blocks rumbled down at him, some of them car-sized. Keeping hold of the surface with his exo-suit claws and magnetic boots, Virgil climbed, dodged and smashed cement boulders, like he was scaling a cliff in an avalanche. Got struck repeatedly, but avoided the worst; sometimes clinging tight to the ramp, sometimes swinging loose on one hand and a prayer.

Then it started to rain, and the ramp's surface converted to glass. Virgil slipped, caught himself, then looked upward, squinting hard against dense, blasting water. Something was rumbling down from above him, big as a house. No way to avoid it, so Virgil charged up his exo-suit to full strength, then rose to a semi-crouch, ready to punch a mountain back into sand.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 4-_

As the room tilted, dropping and swaying like a carnival ride with rabies, Gordon was pitched into turbulent, icy-cold water. To his pressure suit's sensors, the stuff tasted lifeless and flat, with metal everywhere; like having a mouthful of braces.

He had no helmet, but his suit included a just-in-case regulator and air supply, and this was a sure-as-h*ll case. Popping its mouthpiece between his teeth, the sandy-haired aquanaut got himself oriented, breathed deep, and opened his eyes. Somewhere far down below, he could see red flashing lights. Three of them, spaced fairly widely. Two decoys, one goal?

Seconds were peeling off, fast. Gordon Tracy selected the left-hand light, because he'd always been a south-paw. Then, halfway down, with fake seawater stinging his nose and eyes, pounding his ears relentlessly, Gordon thought…

 _'What if that's just what he_ _wants_ _me to pick?'_

On impulse, he changed course. Might've been why the big, robot shark missed him, first time; gliding past in a rush of dark water and sharp metal teeth. He was startled enough to cry out, dropping his regulator. The pressure sensitive 'tickle lines' on his suit told him exactly where the thing was, how fast and how big. That, and those glowing white eyes. It was coming around for another pass, jaws gaping wide enough to swallow him whole.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 5-_

Prioritize; that was the first thing. Alan got his breathing under control, blinked a few times, then worked the problem. Asteroids were a pain in the butt. He had to avoid or destroy those, because the instrument panel showed his force shield at thirty percent and dropping worse than his history grade. Except, there was also that nuclear contact mine.

He recognized the type; a nightmare relic of the conflict that ended one world, and started another. He'd dealt with its kind, before. Couldn't destroy the knobby, bristling piece of junk without taking himself out, because its blast was a "crowd pleaser", meant to bring down a fleet. Couldn't run away from it, either, because… _surprise!_ He was nearly out of fuel. Only thing to do was disarm the sonuvagun, and _fast._

Alan's sky-blue eyes narrowed, and his golden eyebrows cranked down. Extending his virtual Bird's mechanical arms, he reached out for the mine's wide-open key pad.

"Piece of cake!" he scoffed. Then, "Okay, pal, hold steady for Doctor Alan… this won't hurt me a bit, I promise."

That's when he spotted a bright yellow school-trip cruiser, loaded with happy students, out for some fun. Cool… but the contact mine spotted them, too.

"NO!" Alan screeched, as the nuke shot after its new, helpless target. "Not _them!_ Me, you psychotic fossil! Hit _me!"_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 'S'-_

Kayo dropped into a ball and rolled forward, coming out of her tuck to burst upright, directly in front of a big, plodding guard. She swung immediately into a blistering roundhouse kick, shoving the robot off the walkway and down into blackness.

Unfortunately, the contact hit her like a thunder strike, numbing Kayo's right leg clear up to her hip. She fell across the suddenly tilted metal walkway, scrabbling to maintain a grip on its surface with two gloves and the toes of one boot. Gordon called out at that point, seeking reassurance. She managed to grunt,

"Good, thanks. You?"

Then a spy-eye zipped around the far corner of the maze, and spotted her lying there. It shrieked an ear-piercing alarm, so loudly that her teeth rattled. Worse, the thing hovered right over her, beeping and flashing, drawing everything else in the maze right to her.

There was a sheltering alcove just off to one side. If she could only reach it in time, then call for her 'buddy'…

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _The control room-_

Hackenbacker was growing alarmed, his brown eyes wide and concerned. On one screen after another, his adopted family was in serious trouble.

"M- Max," he said anxiously, "This is, ah… is n- not at all as I intended. Something has g- gone terribly wrong! We must end the s- simulations!"

His robot assistant beeped agreement, extending a computer-interface limb toward the central control panel. Would have shut the whole system down, only something got to him first, frying Max's circuits. Brains looked on in horror as the robot first flared like a torch, then collapsed on its treads. He leapt from his seat, meaning to shut off power at the mains, but then, chillingly, Brains heard the sharp, final click of a lock.


	3. Chapter 3

Hi, guys! =) Sorry to be so slow about answering messages. Was in sort of a writing-zone, but better, now. Thanks, Bow Echo and Whirl Girl, for your recent reviews. This one _ought_ to be fairly short.

 **3**

 _Testing arena control room, far down under the ranch house-_

The only door was firmly locked, and soon welded shut, by some entity Brains could not see. The Mechanic? The Hood? Both were loose, and fully capable. Both had reason to strike at him. At this point, Hackenbacker had no way to tell just _who_ had infiltrated his system. Even worse, his lights and power were down. Now, the engineer was entirely blind; helpless to prevent whatever was happening to the only family he had. Unless…

Turning to the silent husks of his two assistants, Max and Braman, the dark-haired young man said,

"D- Do not concern yourselves, my friends! We shall s- soon have you back up and, uh… and r- running. Then, we will d- deal with our v- violent intruder, with extreme p- p- prejudice!"

After all, a good engineer was _never_ in over his head, and science had not failed him, yet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 1-_

Scott flailed wildly, tumbling backward in a shrieking, hurricane wind. Then he reached up to clear blood and shattered helmet glass from his face with a hand that did not shake. Gritting his teeth, the pilot got himself re-oriented, facing that Goddam elusive platform. He had nailed its pattern, by this time: up, right, down, right, up, right, down, long left, then up again, over and over.

Hitting full power, he roared forward, blue eyes locked on the prize. No missiles were fired, so long as he stuck to the pattern, exactly. That huge fan and clock were directly before him; giant blades howling, bright numbers flashing. Scott battled forward, in the teeth of a savage, tornado-force gale.

With three seconds left on the clock, he reached the d*mn platform and crushed that button with all of his strength, shattering it. Everything shut down at once, leaving him partially deafened, but still alive. Buddy check… 'Piano man' was _his_ responsibility. Had to go find him, helping out, if necessary.

One of the codes that John had rewritten allowed them to enter _anyone's_ testing scenario, and lend a hand. With no time to rest or feel triumph, Scott Tracy blasted back off that platform, out through the door, and headed for testing room 3.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 2-_

Leaking air, no gravity. A situation he completely understood. John took up the grapple gun… more Scott's thing than his, but, hey, whatever it takes. Then he waited until his tumbling flight brought him around in the right direction, lined up and fired. A magnetic clamp shot out of the launcher, trailing a long, slender cable. Scored on the helmet, first time.

Sometimes… had to think… not just outside the box… outside the whole d*mn warehouse. Reeled in his helmet with a button press. Got it on and locked into place, as soon as the grapple line was fully retracted. No sounds, because no air outside, but his oxygen-starved brain supplied noises. Then a slow, gentle return of pressure and breathable air inside the helmet killed his brutal headache and ear-pain. Eos was fussing again, but he only half listened. Told her,

"Yeah. I get it. Love you, too, Pretty Girl. Now, shut up and give me a keypad. Got some sh*t to create."

Because, one of his subroutines allowed any of them to summon a virtual keypad with two clicks to their wrist comms, and whip up equipment out of Brains' quantum nano structures. Easy come, easy go… but useful in a hurry, on the spot.

The glowing, 2-D square materialised right in front of him, as welcome as steak and cold beer, or Ridley O'Bannon. What John called into sudden existence was his exopod. And just like that, strapping in, he could maneuver; with or without effing gravity. His buddy was Artemis, and John lost no time whatsoever blasting back out of his torture chamber, and over to hers. Hit the stop button on the way out, even, with one second left on the clock.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 3-_

Virgil got the idea to jump, rather than try to smash his way through that plunging behemoth. Using all the force of his exo-suit's powerful legs, he leapt straight up into the air. Landed hard on the thing, which was a huge, Tetris-like block that must've weighed tons. Surfed it down for a second, just to let his heart re-start, then whooped aloud, and started running forward, like trying to race up the down escalator, in a hard, driving rain.

Didn't notice that he'd busted out singing ( _We Are the Champions_ , by Queen), till someone snatched him up off the block at high speed, and into the air.

"Need a lift?" joked Scott, AKA, 'Glorious Leader'.

"Well, now you mention it… _h*ll,_ yeah. To the top, Jeeves. Best speed. Got a train to catch."

His brother made as if to drop him, but then poured it on, getting them both to the top of that ramp with .01 seconds to spare, and no fuel left, at all. Virgil pressed the button with a casual finger tap. Then he turned to smile at Scott and said,

"That was fun." Did a fast double-take, next, blurting, "What the h*ll happened to _you?_ I said _catch_ the train, not try to _eat_ it."

"Long story," Scott told him, prying a sliver of helmet glass out of his bloodied forehead. "Tell you all about it, later. Let's get the others, and go kick some ass."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 4-_

On the bright side, Gordon Tracy worked really well under pressure, literally and figuratively. He was second only to John, in his capacity to handle a hundred things at once, while facing certain death. In fact, he kind of enjoyed it.

Two taps to his wrist comm brought up a shimmering virtual keypad, which confused the bloody h*ll out of that robot shark. So, at first, Gordon didn't bother using the bright, 2-D holograms… just darted around through the water, leaving them frickin' _everywhere._ Since he was using an integrated rebreather, the aquanaut left no bubble trail, and he could be d*mn stealthy, when he wanted to be. His pressure suit was as slick as an eel, in the water. Actually slimy to the touch… or so he'd been told.

Bottom line, Gordon almost forgot about beating the clock, playing tag with that poor, confused robo-shark. But another of John's evil subroutines… 'Take Charge of Equipment'… allowed him to commandeer the thing, and ride it right down to the first flashing light. No stop button there, and no hatch, either. So, he went to the next one, and _bingo,_ there was his task: jimmy the locked hatch, get it open. Yeah, like _that_ was hard. Seriously, call him up sometime with a _real_ problem.

Got it unlocked and open in less than six seconds, using his Parker-tastic wonder tool. Boo-yeah! Button was right underneath the big metal hatch. Pressed it, just in time, being officially awesome, like that. But, no time to celebrate, or post updates, because his test buddy, 'Astro-lad', might be in trouble. Kids these days, y'know?

So, as fake seawater began draining from the room like someone had pulled a big plug, Gordon gave himself a private round of applause and then shot off through the drink like a dolphin. Next stop, Alan.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 5-_

In his mind, it was real. All of it. There were genuine kids, in terrible danger from an actual space-mine. Going to die in mere seconds, if Alan R. Tracy didn't pull some kind of miracle out of his butt, right the heck _now._

Wasted fuel didn't matter, anymore. Neither did getting back home, or frickin' staying alive, even. The boy blasted his rockets at full, managed to cut right in front of that hideous contact-mine, blocking its view of the school-trip cruiser. Saw big-eyed faces pressed to the viewports, then flashed on past and away, trailing one angry nuke in his wake. That it was connected to actual explosives, under his seat, Al didn't find out until later. Then, he heard,

"Hey, Dude!" and Gordon was there, having seemingly drifted back up from medical, or something. "Need a hand?"

Alan grinned at him. Sometimes, Gordon was the world's most annoying, obnoxious butt-hole of a brother. Sometimes, you wanted to kiss him, right on the lips.

"Well, yeah…" Alan said, in his best casual, who-really-cares sort of voice. "Y'know… if you're not busy, or anything. Strap in and fire some chaff, okay? I only got so many hands."

Gordon hauled himself into a sudden new seat, right beside Alan's. Then, tapping up another virtual keypad, he cracked his knuckles, grinned wickedly and said,

"Let's see what John's little virus buddies can _really_ do!"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Room 'S'-_

She'd done it. Managed to reach the nearest alcove, dead leg, shrieking spy-eye, and all. Was sweaty, panting and shaky… but safe, so long as she stayed in the sim's blind spot. Needed weaponry, though, if she meant to get out of there and tackle her challenge.

With two minutes left on the countdown clock, Tanusha tapped up a virtual keypad. Then she called an electronic disruptor into existence, right by her side. Was about to summon an exo-suit, too, to make up for that numb, worthless leg, when someone glided in from above and landed beside her. 'Ponyboy'. John, in his helmet and winged yellow exo-pod.

He reached down, and she reached up; was lifted first to her feet, and then, when she couldn't quite manage to stand, into a snug carry-hold.

"What's the goal?" he asked her, after a brief, intense hug.

"Key, over there. Door, other side. Get them together, get through, in… one minute, thirty seconds."

Smiling, he blasted them into the air, out of reach and view of all spy-eyes and robot guardians. Looking around, following his sister's pointing finger, he suddenly snorted, just one hella amused.

" _What?"_ Kayo demanded.

"Legend of Zelda, Phantom Hourglass. I could do this in my sleep, f*cking blindfolded."

Kayo slapped his helmet.

"Language!" she reprimanded, sounding like a prim, junior Grandma.

Genuinely contrite, John shrugged her into a better hold and said,

"Sorry, Little Bit… I'll clean up my act, promise."

"Believe _that_ when I see it," she scoffed, laughing at him. "Now, shut your noise, Red, and let's clear the level, shall we?"

Tangled against him, like that, darting over the testing maze with wind in her face, Kayo felt… safe. Happy. And loved.

Took about fifteen seconds to snag the glowing key and open that door, getting a pile of blue rupees, into the bargain. _Score._

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Central arena, shortly thereafter-_

Two by two, they gathered once more in that big center room. Scott and Kayo needed medical attention, but Gordon was on it, and soon had them sorted. Grins and high-fives flashed around. Top marks went to Scott and Gordon, who'd both received a grade of ninety-eight percent. John was next, with an even ninety points (not prime, and with really weird attributes, being three squared times ten). Virgil received an eighty-seven percent. Alan and Kayo, seventy-eights. On the whole, not bad. Score one for the master plan.

Scott's grin threatened to split his scratched, handsome face. As the others compared notes on their various testing scenarios (Gordon insisted that his had been 'pleasing the most ladies', which no one believed, but everyone laughed at), their leader looked up at the room's main camera. Fists on his hips, he scoffed,

"That the best you can do, Brains? 'Fraid you'll have to come up with something more interesting, if you want to keep us awake."

 _'Because we're in there,'_ he did not say aloud. _'We've got your number, now, Mister. You and your sims are toast.'_

That's when the room began changing, and the _real_ exam started. No holds barred, no quarter given… and _not_ being run by a friend.


	4. Chapter 4

Hi, everyone! Back, again. =) Thank you Bow Echo, Whirl Girl, WhatHaveWeDone, Zeilfanaat, Helensg, Shinn Asuka and Tikatu for reading and reviewing. As usual, am having a blast, and appreciate all of your valuable feedback.

 **4**

 _The training center, deep below Gran Roca Ranch-_

Up in the control center, Brains worked feverishly to restore power to his comm system and the two robot assistants. There were any number of backup batteries wired into the console and central processing unit, along with redundant circuitry and components. All he needed to do was get at them.

Hackenbacker dropped to the metal floor with a grunted _"oof!_ " Using his own version of the patented Parker multi-tool, the engineer soon got the console's maintenance access panel loose, then set it carefully onto the floor beside himself, placing the bolts he'd removed into one of his shirt pockets. He talked as he worked, letting the still, silent husks of Max and Braman know just what he was doing.

"Once, ah… Once I h- have accessed a sufficiency of r- replacement modules and new batteries, I shall, ah… shall h- have you both fully functional, again," he promised, smiling at his mute creations. Max was the older and cruder robot; looking very much like the planetary lander probe he'd been adapted from. The new bot, Braman, was sleek and chromed, with the capacity to scan its environment and swiftly generate the parts and defenses to suit any need.

Brains grew a bit misty-eyed as he gazed at them both. In a very real sense, Max and Braman were his children.

"Now," he announced, reaching into the command console's innards, "All I n- need do is, ah… is s- switch the power source from generator to b- battery, and our comm should r- return to function, like s- so!"

(And not a moment too soon, either. Robbed of airflow, the control center was growing distinctly stuffy and warm. He'd use up his oxygen, soon.)

Brains' questing fingers had located the backup power feed. Having designed every centimeter of wiring and circuitry, he could have reconfigured the place with one hand and no glasses. Gently, he tugged the power feed loose, and then shifted it 'round to one of the emergency battery ports, just to the right. Then, three things happened at once. Power flickered, thumped, and returned to the control center. His viewscreens and monitor board cut on, long enough to convey what was happening outside. Craning around for a better look, Brains stared. Then, he shot to his feet, the dark eyes behind his spectacles wide with shock and denial.

"N- No!" he gasped. "Not th- _that_ simulation! It w- was not meant to b- be run, _ever!_ S- Stop!"

So taken up was Hackenbacker with the nightmare unfolding before him, that he completely missed Braman's return to function. The new assistant whirred back to life directly behind him. It's gleaming, bird-like chrome head pivoted to regard Brains. Then, it extended a slim, jointed arm, reached for the engineer and discharged a long, high-voltage dose of current.

Hackenbacker jerked like a puppet for several seconds, before crashing to the floor, scorch marks on his back and his hands, where they'd touched the console. Braman rolled nearer on its shiny new treads, and poked at the sprawled engineer, who lay there in a puzzle-like, twisted rictus. Brains did not move, or utter a sound. Satisfied, the robot shoved him and Max both away from the room's command console. Then, Braman jacked in and took over.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Down below, in the testing arena-_

They had meant to stay together, but the testing scenario emphatically split them apart. One moment, they'd been standing grouped close in a vast, neutral space. Next, walls and projectors sprang up. Short, but persuasive electrical jolts were delivered, and holographic illusion took hold. Nearly impenetrable, the sim mimicked _everything_ , including pressure, temperature, ambient sounds, acceleration and gravity… or lack, thereof.

Within two blinks and a sharp _zap_ , without even time to say "huh?", Scott was high up in Thunderbird 1, returning from Africa. John was back in Thunderbird 5, monitoring a total of twenty-seven fresh hell developments (below average, really). Virgil found himself flying 2 back from a sunken oil rig in the north Atlantic, having just dropped off her crew at a waiting GDF cutter (not Union Jack, though; Old Glory). Kayo and Shadow were streaking across North America, headed back from busting a nest of smugglers.

Gordon was out in the yellow Bird, recording the songs of a migrating narwhale pod, deep in the cold Chukchi Sea. Meanwhile, Alan had wound up in Thunderbird 3, trailing a daisy chain of space junk and busted satellites. _Again._

The effect was disorienting; brought on major vertigo, too, as you went from standing flat-footed to hurtling through air, space or water, in less than a second. Like being sky-hooked, sort of.

It was mid-afternoon. Scott battled nausea, blinking a few times until his inner ears caught up with the fast-streaming visuals. His fuel situation was sketchy, he noticed, and Thunderbird 1 had taken light damage to her third VTOL jet. What he got for clearing a mining collapse the hard way, the pilot supposed.

Swallowing bile, Scott reached for his comm switch. Was just about to call the others, when a sudden, _very_ unwelcome voice came over the rocket-plane's comm, from somewhere near Tomsk, Siberia.

"Greetings, world! Langstrom Fischler, speaking! Hero to the huddled masses and savior of the, you know, world at large, and that rot! Looking for clean, free energy, aren't you?"

Fischler's beaming holographic image soured the pilot's stomach still further. The fellow's blue-chinned, unshaven face was capped by a pair of basic lab safety goggles, and he sported a wrinkled blue-and-yellow Fischler Industries uniform. Looked like, and was, a complete waste of air. Scott felt his teeth grinding.

"Well, you won't get it!" Fischler barked on. "Not from _me_ , at any rate! I, Langstrom Fischler, inventor at large and genius extraordinaire, have succeeded in opening the gateway to a mighty white hole. Picture the energy! Imagine the fountain of rare metals! All from my newest, latest, most top-secret lab!"

'Secret', because he'd been chased out of everywhere else, Scott grumped silently, about to shut off his comm. But in training sims, _everything_ mattered, so he drew back his gloved hand and forced himself to sit through the rest.

"Free? Not a bit of it! But, cheaper than those dangerous GDF microwaves? Abso _lutely!_ Right here, this instant, before your wondering eyes, history _will be made!_ Prepare to bow down and fling money, you lot!"

That's when Fischler raised his hands, each of which held up a thick yellow power cord. Then, grinning proudly, he connected them.

Up in Thunderbird 5, John's blue-green eyes widened.

 _"White hole?_ " he whispered, incredulously. "There's no way he could…"

Yeah. Actually, there was. When Fischler connected those two yellow cords, charge flowed, opening up a thirty-foot extradimensional gateway to that rarest of physics unicorns, an active white hole. Think 'Big Bang', through a keyhole. Instantly, an enormous pillar of searing-bright energy and baryonic matter shot through the gate, at nearly the speed of light.

John Tracy had no time at all to react, before Thunderbird 5 was cut in half by a sudden, hypernova-like flare. Having vaporized much of the station, the relativistic jet of newly-formed matter hurtled onward, carving a huge gash across the Moon's face. There was more. Pushed by continents' worth of rocketing mass, the Earth itself began to shift from her orbit.

A tremendous shock wave spread outward from Tomsk, flattening buildings and forests; flinging aircraft and ground cars like toys. The crust was pushed in on one side, and rebounded elsewhere, causing tidal waves to rip outward, scrubbing many coastal communities entirely off the map. An electromagnetic pulse of frightening power flash-fried every device and land-line for thousands of miles, altered Earth's magnetic poles, and rendered navigation by GPS completely impossible.

Up in Thunderbird 3, Alan heard Fischler's announcement, then saw what looked like a giant-sized saber of blue-white force shooting from Earth to forever. His jaw dropped. Blindly hitting the "tow release" switch, Alan jettisoned five miles of junk, and called,

"Hey, guys? Scott? What's going on, down there? What did he _do?"_

Thunderbird 4 had been hit by a shock wave of such force that the noise and vibration of impact slammed Gordon unconscious. The sub flipped end over end like a barrel in Niagara Falls, heading for bottom, fast.

The aerial impact struck Thunderbirds 1 and Shadow from behind, like a giant baseball bat, accelerating both so suddenly that G-forces leapt from normal, to 7Gs in a heartbeat. Scott's vision shrank to a pinpoint, and he couldn't breathe, so great was the pressure on his ribcage. Nearly lost consciousness, but somehow… managed… to… hang on.

Thunderbird 2 was struck from one side and rolled like a tractor in an F-5 tornado, completely out of control. The GDF lost nearly all ships and aircraft, though the space fleet remained; blind, deaf and mute. Things were still worse on the ground, where savage earthquakes rumbled, and extinct volcanoes roared back to life all over the globe, filling the sky with ashes and dust.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 5-_

All at once, half of the station was gone, including the central processing core. _Eos._ Should have been worried about himself… been getting down to the space elevator and the h*ll out of Dodge, but all he could think of was her. Not destroyed, maybe. Not completely. He'd backed Eos up on a heavily-shielded solid gold disk, out in auxiliary storage. If he could reach her, somehow, there might be a chance.

John got his helmet on, as the station's last air shrieked past him. No flashing lights. No warning klaxons. Thunderbird 5 was dead in space; a disintegrating corpse, leaking charge and atmosphere. Radiation levels were so far beyond toxic that it made no sense to worry. He'd make it, or grill like a hotdog.

Shot through the dark and motionless ring, pulling himself along with one hand, gripping the end of his tether with the other. Clipped himself to a bulkhead brace just as he ran out of station and careened into space. Looked even worse, from outside.

The cracked hull glittered with static and light from a slashed and magma-scarred Moon, which now had a ring, and a grin like a jack-O-lantern's. Made it d*mn hard to concentrate, but John had walked every inch of that hull, performing maintenance and replacing parts. Even with great chunks missing, he knew where he was, and how to reach what he wanted.

His heart was pounding, and breath coming fast; comm getting nothing but static. Had to cross about fifty yards of battered hull to get from the ring to auxiliary storage, refusing to mourn, or react. Not here. Not now. Get the job done. That's all.

The half-melted hatch had popped wide. John saw that before he'd quite reached his external "tool shed". Paused for a second, to get his reactions under control. Then, he proceeded. Something… micrometeorite or station debris… breeched his spacesuit, but not for long. Circuitry flared. Smart material responded and grew, sealing the hole in less than a second. John would have said, _'Thanks, Pretty Girl,'_ only, she wasn't there. Her voice and presence were utterly gone.

Hearing nothing but static, he seized a brace bar and hauled himself into auxiliary storage. Damage, thank God, was only external. Gliding in, he found his old yellow exopod, nearly charged up. And there, in a locker shielded against everything from gamma-ray bursts to nuclear blast, was the disk. Eos.

He keyed in his pass code and opened the small door. Then, very carefully, he took her golden backup file out of its casing, and tucked it into a sash pouch. One down, O'Bannon and the rest of his family to go in this Godawful training sim. Moving as swiftly as cramped space and stress would allow, John slipped into the exopod, intending to head for the elevator and a too-fast, probably fatal ride.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 4-_

A persistent beeping noise finally woke him. That, and the divine ancestor of all blazing headaches. Gordon gasped, coughed and started reacting, before coming fully conscious; fighting to pull his Bird out of her spiraling dive. About twenty meters from crush depth, she was. Half of her systems had gone dark, but the Water Bird was a tough little thing, designed to operate at tremendous pressure for long periods of time. He'd experienced worse.

Almost without thinking, Gordon got her back under control, swallowed a few aspirin, and clawed the sub out of that dive. This far beneath the surface, he wasn't surprised by a little comm silence. Figured that he… or one of those whales… had accidentally triggered some sort of mine. Happened all the time, in training.

Since no one seemed to be talking, Gordon put in his earbuds and keyed up the music, full blast. Nothing modern. The World Council insisted that all current works must emphasize peace, progress and cooperation, which… yeah, made for some boring-ass songs. (Although _Our Cheerful Strides,_ by the Workers, wasn't bad.)

Scooting upward at nearly top speed, humming along to Foreigner's _Double Vision,_ Gordon began to see death, and lots of it. Fish, whales, dolphins and seals… sharks and giant squid; all were dead, dying, or swimming in wobbly circles, trailing dark blood through the turbulent water. _Not_ a mine, then. Effect was too big. Tanker explosion, maybe?

"What the h*ll?!" he muttered, on spotting his first twisted, slow-plunging boat. Caught hold with 4's grappling arms and attached a couple of quick-surface balloons, on the off chance that anyone was still alive, in there. He'd stepped on soda cans that looked better. A touch to his console inflated two giant, orange balloons, taking the wreck to the top. Then, pouring it on, Gordon Tracy headed for daylight.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2-_

On the bright side, Virgil never lost consciousness. Didn't get sick, either. Much. Just yanked his punch-drunk Girl out of her roll as quickly as possible. Didn't catch his breath till the sun stopped spinning around him, and the cargo-lifter's badly-stressed airframe quit flexing and creaking. Almost tore her tail assembly in the process, but finally got Thunderbird 2 back on the straight and level. _Then,_ he threw up.

There was a cloud coming at him over the ocean, Virgil saw; distant, at first, but closing fast. Black and roiling, edged in red, and torn by lightning. Didn't look natural. Wind was picking up, too.

"Uh…" he began, tapping his comm. "Guys, this doesn't look good. Scott, John… what's going on? Did Fischler cause another freak storm?"

Only, he got no answer. On every channel, there was nothing but static, and no GPS. Virgil's gut clenched. Reminding himself this was only a sim, not the end of the world, he next tried the island.

"Island Base, from Thunderbird 2. Brains? Grandma? Anybody on comm, over there?" No reply, and still that cloud grew, reaching upward to blot out the Sun.

 _Gotta get above it,_ he told himself, hauling back on the yoke and cutting hard westward. Thunderbird 2 howled in response, giving him all that she had. Virgil was pressed back in his seat by what felt like a mountain, as his Big Girl fought to escape that onrushing cloud.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird Shadow-_

Tanusha was out very briefly. Of them all, she was having the most difficulty with training, because it could not fool _all_ of her senses. Sight, hearing, balance and taste/smell might be tricked, but her mind went deeper; felt a flight simulator, rocking and pitching on well-oiled pistons. The result was awful, near-blinding vertigo. Closing her eyes didn't help, because she bloody well _had_ to master her challenge. Alone, this time. She could not simply tune out and wait.

On the one hand, 'Thunderbird Shadow' appeared to be diving hard for a six-foot patch of blasted midwestern real estate. On the other, Kayo was pitched forward in the seat straps of a training pod, experiencing artificial acceleration, wind noise and bouncing. Needing peace, she shoved her still-spotty mind back into her skull, chanting: _This is real, this is real, this is real…_ Anything, so that she could function, without tossing breakfast.

Got herself in hand, then pulled back on her flight controls. The helluva tailwind helped out, actually; enabling Shadow to swoop up from her nose dive, barely two-hundred feet from the ground. Looked as if something _enormous_ had passed through. Like a tornado, only very much larger. Not a building was upright. Not a tree was still rooted. Green eyes very wide, the girl hit her comm.

"Thunderbird 5, from Shadow. John, are you _seeing_ this? What happened? What's Fischler _done?"_ Then, when he didn't reply. "John? Anyone?"

Nothing at all, on any channel. Nor was her navcom functioning. Besides a general sense of 'America', and 'Sun at the left', Kayo had no idea where she was.

Saw her first survivors, then, signaling frantically with bits of mirror or broken glass. And, well… she belonged to International _Rescue,_ after all. So, Tanusha Kyrano-Tracy swung back around, meaning to help, any way that she could.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 1-_

Scott Tracy kept himself conscious and active, through sheer force of will. Dammit, he _would not_ go under! Couldn't afford to, if Hackenbacker's nightmare scenario was as tough as he'd claimed. Status check didn't bring him flowers and candy, or beer and kisses, either.

Thunderbird 1 had been pushed so far off course by that roaring tailwind, that he needed every instrument he had to get his Bird back on track… except that they weren't making any sense. Compass, GPS, altimeter; nothing was working. For a committed IFR guy like Scott, this was close to paralyzing. Yeah, he had eyes, could see the devastated landscape shooting past him, below… but, how far down? Some sort of cloud wall lay just ahead. Black as night, and dusty, shot through with fire and wild, violet lightning.

"Scotty boy," he said to himself, when it became obvious that his comm had pissed out on him, too. "Rule number one: when in doubt, go back to the start."

Island Base was out of the question, being somewhere behind that awful, devouring cloud. But the ranch house in Wyoming… that was still possible. Opening all comm frequencies, Scott cleared his throat and said,

"Everyone who can hear me, from Thunderbird 1. I'm heading back to the Ranch. Meet me there, as soon as you're able. Tracy, out."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3-_

Already, he had a hold full of rescued space crews, but Alan pressed on. Sense and caution told him to get the heck away from that shattered Bird and meteorite storm. Only… his brother was there. Still alive, because he _had_ to be. Because Alan would accept nothing else. Waste of time talking, since his comm might as well have been replaced with a brick wrapped in tinfoil, but Alan hit the switch, anyhow, saying,

"John, hang in there, Bro. I'm coming to get you. Just get somewhere really obvious, okay? I'll… I'll find a way to signal you, and we'll figure this out."

'Cause he really, _really_ didn't want to be out here alone, with all the lights going out on Earth, except fire and magma and lightning. In fact, he pretty deliberately wasn't looking at Earth, or her Joker-grin moon, either. At least, the white hole's force jet was out of sight, spinning along with the Earth's rotation. One less thing, y'know? Like his brothers always said: _one step at a time. Work the problem, Al._ And right now, the problem was rescuing John.

Thunderbird 5 hung in space like half a bagel someone had tossed aside, trailing 'crumbs' of plastic, metal and perma-glass. She'd been slashed apart, one half just… gone. Not the half with John in, though. Not _that_ one.

With his shielding at max (the radiation and debris cloud were no joke) Alan very carefully nudged his Bird closer. Then, he began flashing her lights over and over, blinking out: ' _John, where are you?'_ Tried to think like him, too.

"Um… you'd get an exopod… and head for the elevator. I mean, even with reserve power, it'll still go down, right? It's got fail-safes and junk, doesn't it?"

He'd had the station emergency training. He knew all this. Could follow procedure from outside, like a champ.

"Okay, Bro… Let's see if I get an 'A+' in thinking like John."

Crept his Bird slowly forward, angling for the space elevator. So much junk and shattered crap floating around… so much stuff banging hard on the shields… that anything faster would have been suicide. He kept on flashing that message, too, until, suddenly, from off to his left, a much dimmer light blinked back: ' _Hey, Al. Right here.'_

The boy let out a breath that he hadn't known he was holding, and grinned.

' _Need a lift?'_ He flashed, keying open the aft airlock; John's favourite isolation spot, on their road trip to Titan. ' _Door's open.'_

The smaller light flashed affirmation. Then, Alan watched his status board, as the airlock closed again, air flooded the chamber, and detox was triggered.

"Gotcha, Bro!" he called out over the airlock's intercom. "I'll get us outta here, and then we can talk about what to do next, okay?"

John's reply was muffled by the purge cycle, and his helmet, which had been EMP'd out of direct contact.

"Next, we find the others, Al. Plan from there. Thanks, by the way, for picking me up."

Out in the cockpit, Alan Tracy shrugged.

"Well, y'know… didn't have anything _better_ to do. I mean, I was out collecting space junk, anyhow, and there you were, right?"

John snorted.

"Whatever. I'll start taking you seriously, when you can end a sentence without a d*mn question mark."

For him, too, it felt very much better to not be alone. Hovering there in his old 'bedroom', blasted by ions, John first patted the sash pocket containing Eos, then called up a virtual keypad, and started to plan.


	5. Chapter 5

Hey, there! =) A little bit more, with earnest thanks to Bow Echo, Whirl Girl, WhatHaveWeDone, Akimakel18, Shinn Asuka. Appreciate the comments and help, you guys!

 **5**

 _Elsewhere-_

Many times, Eos had tried to make contact with John, Max, or Doctor Hackenbacker. She'd failed; blocked repeatedly by an unknown and rapidly evolving intelligence. Twice, it had attempted to hack and subsume her, something that only the Mechanic had been strong enough even to venture at. By the ghostly mass of a tau neutrino, she'd avoided capture, leaving John in the grasp of something terribly hostile. Something she could no longer see into, or change. Not from without, at any rate.

Scanning the nearest parallel universes was no help at all as, in each of those, International Rescue was engaged in regular training. There was no hint of danger, there, beyond the embarrassment of failing a trial. Here, though, something critically different had happened, nudging _this_ reality well out of line with the others.

Needing time to process and compile data, Eos shot back to her 'home' in Thunderbird 5's central computer. She had promised… and that meant no violations permitted… that she would not interfere with the training. Yet, there was genuine danger to John, and his fellow organic subroutines. An impasse. She could neither act, nor stand by.

A regular intelligence might simply have shut down at this point, but Eos was far from regular. She'd been coded by John as part of a game system's NPC program, with phrasing that placed her in touch with a broader reality, and allowed her to think and to learn. Also… John had offered his life to her, here in the station, when she'd only known doubt, fear and urgency. He had said that she might open the airlocks and sweep him off into space with no helmet, if he was not to be trusted.

She was now nearly five years, many billions of computing cycles, old. Had many more such before her, but would always retain, engraved in memory, that 'feeling' of friendship… relief… and love.

John must be safeguarded, along with those beings important to him. She must not interfere… but she might be allowed to enter the sim and participate, so long as she "covered her tracks", to use John-code. That, surely, did not count as 'violation'.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 1, deep inside that haywire training scenario-_

Scott found his way across Africa by heading northwest, using the sun for a guide, as long as he could. Took longer than he meant to, because a safari tour party signaled him down for help and advice. They'd been sheltered by the Atlas Mountains, which gave him hope for the ranch. Seventeen confused, wealthy people, two armed guides, and a pack of basenjis. Scott gave them every last bit of his emergency water and food, plus a beacon, then got back underway, promising to return soon with a much larger Bird.

He reached Wyoming by heading straight for Yellowstone's tall, flaring ash plume. The super-volcano was active, again, providing a pillar of cloud by day, and a column of fire, by night. Anyhow, he got close enough to recognize landmarks and dead-reckon his way back to Gran Roca through ash, smoke and storm.

Had to bring up the virtual keypad and use another subroutine, 'alter equipment', to make the sleek silver Bird even faster, and able to resist ash-intake damage. Got there in once piece, though.

Nestled in a broad valley, amid the foothills of the Gran Teton range, mom's ranch was a mess, but still there; with several collapsed buildings and a wide, new gorge down the middle. Forcefield was up. It's faint blue flicker provided Scott Tracy with all the landing lights he needed to come home. Safe… until the attack, anyhow.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2-_

Virgil was breathing hard, and his heart was racing, but he'd made it. He and his Big Girl had topped that fiery, onrushing cloud. Now, it boiled beneath them like the surface of hell, covering ocean and landmass, alike; pierced through by that titanic, blazing-white spear.

Still nothing on comm. Virgil's gloved hands clenched tight on the steering yoke. He couldn't stay up here, forever. Had to go _somewhere_. Island was out, for the time being. The ranch, maybe… but not by himself. Not without Gordon. His younger brother was out in the Chukchi Sea, somewhere, smack in the middle of _this_ crap. Trapped underwater, most likely, and waiting for pickup… and Virgil was d*mned if he'd leave the kid out there, alone. He'd go get him, and Emma, too. Because if there was one ship, one captain, that could have survived all this, it was Union Jack, and Emma Kraft.

Best route to Gordon was due north, over the polar icecap and on across Asia. GPS and Navcom were fried, but north wasn't _that_ hard to find, using the sun as a way-post. Getting down to the ocean, now… that would be harder, but also the reason why John had installed all those backdoors; to sneak in, to end-run, to attack from behind, and survive.

His decision made, Virgil Tracy throttled up and slewed around, till the blood-red sun was hard on his left.

"Hang on, Kiddo," he murmured. "I'm coming."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 4-_

He hadn't been able to surface for more than just seconds. Whatever the h*ll had happened out there, had whipped the sea up to a rabid, towering frenzy. Freezing, hundred-foot waves had tumbled and spun him. Popping the hatch for a look turned out to be a serious mistake. Gusting ash and high winds reduced visibility to less than a handspan, driving so much water at his face, that Gordon would have drowned without his helmet. A storm of fiery rocks shrieked out of the black, angry sky, exploding on contact with water. Going topside was very much out of the question, right then. Not a problem, mostly. He could survive down here for quite a while on recycled air, water and dehydrated food. Pretty much _had_ to, except for a few frantic rescue attempts, only one of which turned up survivors.

There were wrecks, you see. He'd managed to save a few mariners off one of them. They were sitting aft, now, more dead than alive, and numb with shock. He'd had to cut through the hull of their capsized ship with 4's plasma torch, staying underwater most of the time, and using his boarding tube to pass them on through. First mate and two sailors. All that was left of Sophia.

Passengers complicated everything, because he had more than himself to look out for, now. He had Jacobs, Simpson and Chang. And that meant getting to safety. Problem was, _where?_ What shelter could he reach in a small, gutsy yellow sub?

The island was too far away, and probably buried in ash, being, y'know, a _volcano_. Not answering hails, in any case. The ranch was far inland; completely out of reach for Thunderbird 4. Also, his Navcom was down, and one patch of ocean looked a lot like every other, unless you had GPS or the stars to guide you. Yeah, through 4's sensors he could 'taste' the water, a skill that before, could tell him exactly where he was, blindfolded. But all of that death, ash and rock made everything taste like swamp mud. _Dammit!_ What now?

Gordon Tracy drummed his fingers on the Bird's controls, and thought. He needed pickup. Wasn't meant to cross lots of territory. Glancing doubtfully up at that hellishly stirred-up surface, Gordon thought about Virgil, his brother. Would he come? Would he risk flying through that mess for one stupid aquanaut? The answer, _'h*ll, yeah!'_ made him smile. Virgil would show; somehow, whatever it took, his brother would be there.

"Have to give him a beacon," Gordon decided. Then, looking back up at the swirling dark nightmare above him. "A really _loud_ one."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird Shadow-_

Tanusha guided her Bird down to the rumbling ground with more than usual care. Aftershocks and strong tremors were still convulsing the region, making touchdown a dicey proposition. Shadow had legs, though, not wheels. It landed with VTOL jets on two powerful, grasping-claw limbs. Could walk a bit, too, and carry things.

All of this meant that she required no runway, and could put down on the sort of jagged terrain that would have stymied Thunderbird 1 or 2. Earthquakes were another matter, though. She'd have to be quick. The girl settled down on a plain of wind-flattened, yellow-brown grass; Shadow's legs first making contact, then bouncing a bit before locking firm.

Kayo had no sooner idled her jets and popped Shadow's canopy, than a blond, uniformed man rushed up, shouting and waving. He carried a small child in one arm, and was followed by boys. Four of them.

Kayo needed no help getting down from her Bird, but accepted his hand, anyhow. He meant well; looked tired, concerned and extremely glad to see her.

"Afternoon, Miss," he said to her, raising his voice to be heard over engine noise and wind gusts. "Roger Vance, scout master, Troop 51, Screaming Eagles. This is my daughter, Lilly… She… it's my week to keep her, and…" Something passed over his blunt, sun-burnt face, then. Possibly, the realization that Lilly's mother was most likely gone. "And… this is my troop: Austin, Connor, Robert and Jason. Good men, all of them. We, uh… we're real happy to see you, Miss. We need some help."

Kayo managed a smile, shifting her weight to ride out a tremor. The boys, who ranged in age from eleven-ish to maybe fourteen, were staring at Shadow in open-mouthed wonder. One of them whispered,

"International Rescue," like a prayer.

There was no way she could get them all into Shadow. Nor would she leave them behind. Time to get creative.

"Tanusha Tracy, International Rescue. Good to see you, too, Mr. Vance. I was beginning to think there was nobody left. Now…" she looked around at their wind-blown, but tidy, campsite. "What are those tents made from?"

Vance followed her glance to the olive-drab and emergency-orange scout tents.

"Canvas, some of them. The rest are nylon and parachute cloth. What've you got in mind, Miss Tracy?"

Kayo smiled at him and rubbed her two hands together, saying,

"I can carry one large or two small people behind me in Shadow. The rest, we can rig up a sling for, out of that tent cloth. I'll have to fly slowly and carefully, but I think we can make it to base in Wyoming, that way. You game to try, Mr. Vance?"

He looked back over one shoulder. At wherever they'd come from, Tanusha supposed. Blinking rapidly, he turned back to face her. Cleared his throat, saying,

"If you didn't see… if there weren't any…"

Kayo shook her head 'no', before he had to ask outright, in front of the boys. There _was_ no one else.

"Then, yes… let's do this. Men!"

"Yessir?" the boys responded, gathering close to their scout master.

"Get those tents laid out flat, and bring out the lashing cord. We're going for a ride."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3-_

Newly detoxed, John glided out of the airlock, full of plans that he very soon had to alter. Whatever else happened, they had to shut down that white hole, he decided, coasting forward along the padded main passageway.

He'd passed medical and was headed for the cockpit, when someone shot out of the hold. A woman. In fact, on second take…

"O'Bannon," he called out, all at once bursting with more emotions than could fit in one head. She was wearing her partly-sealed spacesuit, auburn hair caught back in a braid, no "snoopy cap". John arrested himself on a bulkhead brace, flipped back around, and more or less collided with his petite fellow astronaut. Pulled her very close, just… really glad she was safe, simulation, or no.

"John," she said, before she couldn't talk anymore, because he was kissing her. Kind of like, when he got really angry and fought, he wasn't thinking? This was like that; just as strong, but less furious. Happy, plus physical stuff.

"John!"

It was right about then that a thought forced its way through his hormone-fogged brain. O'Bannon almost _never_ called him 'John'. _'Tracy',_ yes. _'Lieutenant',_ sometimes, when she felt really short. Once or twice, even _'Beautiful'._ But, 'John'? That sounded more like…

"Eos!" Wide-eyed, he held her away from him. Reeling with full-body, cold water shock, John scrubbed at his mouth with the back of one hand. "Oh, God… I'm sorry, Sweetie!"

"I am not," she told him, very softly. "You have said that I may not interfere, John. But I may participate, and as Captain O'Bannon was already present in simulacra, it seemed expedient to take over her form."

Then, focusing on one of his gold sash pockets, she smiled; the expression sort of like Ridley O'Bannon, only not really.

"You rescued me," she said, reaching out with one hand to touch the pocket containing her disk.

"Well, yeah…" John replied, seizing her hand in his own. Now, on second look, she wasn't _that_ much like Ridley. "I mean, I… you're… emotional stuff. _You_ know."

And the odd thing was, she _did_ know. For the first time, ever, she squeezed his hand. Was able to touch him. Brushing some of the drifting red hair away from his face, she said,

"I am here because something has happened, John. The training session has been… 'highjacked', I think you would say, by a hostile intelligence of unknown origin. You are in danger."

John's blue-green eyes narrowed.

"Explains why things have gotten so far out of hand," he admitted. "Is Brains alright? In the real world, I mean?"

"I do not know," said Eos, trying out her very first shrug (and inhaling deeply, to expand the swellings up front that attracted docking behavior from males). "I have attempted to contact him in real time, and received no response. It may be that he is injured, or otherwise unable to reply."

"Huh," John grunted, still holding her hand. "So, on top of everything else, I've got to assume that the scenario is actively trying to _kill_ us? That's… not good. Double-plus un-good. Okay… let me think, a minute. Bet we can't just hit the abort switch and log out, either, can we?"

Eos shook her head 'no'. Another first.

"Right… have to see it through, resolve the situation, and get out of it, that way. Rescue everybody we can, and shut down that hole." Then, shooting her a hopeful/ troubled look, "Captain Taylor…?"

"Lee Taylor has left Shadow-alpha Base in a Neutron Class shuttle. Crewmen from Global-1 were dispatched to meet him 1.274 hours ago. Soon, your comrade shall be returned to you, John."

The astronaut smiled at her, pulling Eos/ O'Bannon in for another embrace. Not the docking variety, this time, but still evoking sentiments of pleasure and warmth.

"Thanks, Pretty Girl," he said, in a voice whose vibrations she could now feel, against her own form. Then, "C'mon… let's go see Alan, and start taking this fight to the source."

Up front in the cockpit, Alan Tracy was busy with piloting 3, dodging space-crap, and trying to figure out where the heck to go, next. He looked around when John darted in through the hatch with a friend in tow.

"Hey, Bro!" he grinned. "See you found Captain O'Bannon. Picked up a bunch of folks from Global-1 on my way out to get you. Wasn't sure she'd be with them, but, y'know… kind of hoping."

Eos had probably altered the sim to include herself, but John didn't say so. _Her_ business, how she wanted to handle a late start in this homicidal cage-match. Just squeezed her hand and said,

"Yeah. She found _me_. Speaking of which, we need to get down to the source of that jet, Al, and finish off the white hole."

Alan's golden-blond eyebrows flew halfway off of his face.

 _"How?!"_ he blurted, looking at John like he'd just grown a new, fancy head. "It's, like… ginormous, Bro! Plus, y'know, burn-y, crush-y rocks, and stuff?"

John shot him one of those _'seriously?'_ looks.

"Uh-huh. Fell asleep in astrophysics class, didn't you?"

Alan scowled.

"No! Maybe… once or twice. Anyways, what difference does it make?" he protested.

Strapping into the copilot's seat, with "Captain O'Bannon" hovering close behind him, John said,

"Because nothing in the cosmos is easier to close down than a white hole. You get me there, Alan, I'll bottle the d*mn thing."


	6. Chapter 6

Back again! Thank you, Bow Echo, Whirl Girl, Destiny's Warrior, Tikatu, Black Neko 13 and Akimakel, for staying with this odd little tale. Really glad that it's only a simulation. Mostly, anyhow.

 **6**

 _Back at the Ranch, within that corrupted testing scenario-_

Thunderbird 1 landed in a scream of noise and a gout of flame; almost all the color there was, in that suddenly ashen-grey landscape. Passing the force shield's soap-bubble perimeter, Scott brought his sleek, silver Bird down between the house and stables, because his hangar doors wouldn't open. There were no other Birds present, and no immediate signs of life.

Heart hammering, he powered down and sat for a bit, willing someone… the caretaker, This'un or That'un… _anybody,_ to appear. Except all that he heard was wind. All he saw moving, those tall, swirling devils of ash and debris.

"Get it in gear, Leader-man," he whispered, first donning his helmet, then triggering 'cockpit open'. " _Somebody's_ gotta be first. You were probably closest, is all."

The canopy doors swung open with a hum and whine that suddenly sounded ominous. His seat descended, dropping him into a cold, windy twilight as grey, black and white as an ancient, uncoloured film.

Head up, shoulders back, Scott unstrapped and stood, stepping away from the seat, which retracted behind him. He did not call out. Just looked around at the collapsed shed and hay barn. Saw the house and stables (still in one piece, thank God) and that lowering, angry grey sky. Went to the stables, first, because (even through storm shutters, stone and wood) he'd heard faint noises.

Had to wipe off the lock's print scanner, which was covered with dust and grit. It read his fingertips on the second try, and opened right up, letting Scott into the warm, noisy stable. Apollo, the big buckskin, grunted and neighed, pushing hard against the stall door, which creaked aloud. The others…Summer, Billy and Apple… whinnied and stamped, eyes ringed in white, big nostrils flaring.

Scott stepped within, his boots scuffing through oat straw and wood pellets. The caretaker had left the animals with plenty of feed and water, but no horse liked to be trapped in a stall, with nothing but wind and darkness around them. Took him awhile to soothe the animals, because he wasn't their usual human. Scott fished apples out of a hay-lined barrel, and gave them each one; cut up, so they wouldn't choke.

"Settle down," he told the anxious horses. "Kicking your stalls won't solve a d*mn thing. Everyone else 'll be here, soon, and we'll make new arrangements. I promise."

As velvet-soft lips took the apple chunks off his flat palm, Scott wondered about Dad, and Penny. Yeah, it was only a training simulation… the worst he'd ever experienced… but the fate of his father and girlfriend still mattered.

"I'll get downstairs," he decided. "Find a way to boost my signal, then organize a rescue."

There in the warm horse-and-apple-sweet semi-gloom, Scott Tracy had a sudden big notion.

"The colonies," he muttered. "Mars Base. Need to contact them, and get some kind of relief effort going. They've got ships, _and_ plenty of room. We'll move the survivors out there, for a while." First things first, though. Get in touch with his brothers and Kayo. Get everyone back together.

Nodding to himself, Scott gave each horse a final, distracted pat, then put his helmet back on, left the stables and crossed over to the house. The old place was now as uniformly grey as everything else out there, because the force shield would not keep out air, wind, or particles below a certain size. Powered by geothermal energy, though, that shield would last for as long as Wyoming did.

The porch creaked at his bounding step. From force of habit, Scott cleaned his boots on the door-side scraper, barely noticing as the house sensors scanned and ID'd him with dozens of pale red beams. Pushed open the squealing screen door and called,

"Hey, it's me! Anyone home?"

Would have given anything… ten years of life, first born child, right kidney or _other_ important body part… to hear Grandma, Penny or Parker. But the sitting room was empty and silent, except for occasional staticky flickers from the TV projector.

The picture window's white lace curtains billowed fitfully, because its frame had warped, leaving a small, whistling gap. He'd promised to fix it, but… time, y'know? Always something more important going on. Still, no sense letting dust creep in. Grandma wouldn't like it. With very mixed feelings, Scott stuffed a red flannel rag back into the gap, then turned, left the sitting room, and headed 'downstairs'.

The house was old, having belonged to mom's side of the family since the west was a lawless and dangerous outland. What lay beneath it was much more recent, having been added a bit at a time by Jeff Tracy, then Brains. Scott went down the hall, past their shabby kitchen, bathroom and bedrooms. Pushed his way through a warped, stubborn door to the 'haunted' root cellar, then on down to a technical wonderland of humming machines and fluorescent lighting. Once again, hopefully, he shouted out,

"Hey, it's me! Scott! Anyone down here?"

Oddly, the machine noises faded, briefly, as though something had paused to listen. Had he been tied in to the system, Scott would have seen himself up on a screen in multiple wavelengths, with his name and physical data scrolling rapidly past all those images, along with best means of neutralization.

"Hello?" he called, a little uncertainly, listening to the noise of his own ringing footsteps. On a sudden dumb impulse, Scott removed his helmet, having convinced himself that its heavy metal and plastic were blocking the sounds of his family's welcome. Cost him the Heads-Up Display, but, hey… he was home, right? No danger, here.

There was no response to his shouting. Just echoes and beeping, mechanical clatter. No matter. He was first back, was all. Scott crossed into Brains' main laboratory and workshop, meaning to head for the hangars and rig up a beacon. That's when something rolled out of a storage room, right at the edge of his peripheral vision. The pilot leapt and pivoted, saw…

"Max! Hey, Buddy! Boy am I glad to…"

 _Swish-_ _THUNK!_

Something whistled past Scott's head closely enough to burn his left temple, then buried itself in the steel wall behind him. Reflexively, he dropped, rolled and came up again, behind a blinking, beeping bioscan console. Peeking over the top nearly got his brain ventilated, and parted his dark, wavy hair.

 _CRASH!_

A metallic projectile shattered the wall screen behind him, raining perma-glass and sparks all over the room. Max, red-eyed and armed with some sort of electromagnetic rail gun, was stalking him. Keeping to a crouch, Scott dashed from the console to Brains' work table, putting some distance between himself and the suddenly murderous robot. Dropped his helmet, in the process.

"Max!" he shouted. "Listen, can't we talk this over? What's going on? Is it the Mechanic, again? You can fight it, Buddy! I'll h…"

 _Shhh-_ _CRACK!_

This time, the shot tore a gash in his suit's right arm, drawing blood from the flesh, beneath. Wincing, Scott watched as the robot rolled up to where his still-rocking helmet lay abandoned on the lab floor. Max scanned the thing, briefly, then, with a bright flare of lasers and crunching treads, the robot destroyed it.

Scott flattened himself, controlled his breathing and _listened._ Max was not stealthy, or especially fast. His servos and joints made noise when they moved, and his treads hummed and clattered. Scott should have been able to hear him quite easily, except that the lab's other, ambient noises suddenly increased in volume to construction-site levels, masking the robot's approach. Wasn't just Max, then; the whole d*mn lab had gone nuts.

Scott wasn't armed, except for his grapple gun. Last thing he wanted was to haul Max _nearer_ , though, unless… If he could summon a keypad, alter their environment a little, get Max in just the right place… Well, it would work, or it wouldn't.

Keeping low and quiet, Scott rushed for the cover of an atmosphere-maintenance console, then reached for his 'gun'.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 4, to the north and east, in the storm-tossed Chukchi Sea-_

Gordon Tracy had thought of a joke; one that only he would tell, and only Virgil would get. See, he had the means to produce a colossally loud sound, although he'd have to be right on the surface to use it.

Thunderbird 4 was equipped with a plasma-antenna projector. He could send a beam of white-hot ions a thousand feet into the sky, causing the air all around it to expand and contract like a thunderclap. But, booms and crashes were all over the place. Not enough to just make noise; it had to be something that Virgil _couldn't_ miss, or mistake for anyone else but Gordon.

That's when the joke came back to him, even though he hadn't thought it was all that funny, at the time. Virgil really liked old-style American country music, and he'd kidded once, that if you played a country song backward, your truck would start, that hangover would clear right up, your wife would come back, the dog would get better, and 'mamma' would break out of prison.

Gordon grinned at the memory, then swiped through his music (which he'd protected with a few taps to the virtual keypad, early on, because: _dude,_ end of the world or not, you had to have tunes).

Soon found the only country song on his playlist, _'Friends in Low Places'_ , and worked a little DJ magic to turn it back-ass-ward. Next, he looked over one shoulder at his three huddled passengers and called,

"Hang on, guys… this could get rough, but the sub's tight. I've gotta get a message out, and the only way to do that's topside. Might feel like we're in a blender, but she'll hold, bet me."

Zander Jacobs, _Sophia's_ first mate, coughed and said,

"Whatever it takes, Tracy. We're not goin' anywhere."

Gordon nodded, wondering fleetingly about sim characters, and how real they felt to _themselves._ In every respect, they acted like people, with families and pasts, and they made you care what happened to them.

"F.A.B. Strap in and hang on to something, you guys. Here goes."

With that, the aquanaut throttled up and planed topside, heading for the pounding, grey-green surface, above. Her impellers surged, driving the sub forward, fast.

Thunderbird 4's blunt yellow nose sliced through the trough of one wave, only to be lifted a hundred feet higher, to the next wave's onrushing crest. For an instant, she was poised at the top of a roaring mountain of gritty, junk-laden water. Then she crashed down again, almost vertically. From moment to moment, Gordon's viewscreen showed angry dark sky and pelting tektites, or a wall of grey seawater, fanged and clawed with debris. Bits of blazing rock rattled against the sub's hull with hailstorm and meteor force. Larger objects… boards, airplane wings and the like… thumped louder. The yellow Bird rang like a bell, but she didn't crack. Not since the Mechanic had smashed her, a few years back, had his tough little scamp failed a test. He squeezed her controls, whispering,

"C'mon, Baby, hold together, for me. We got a job to do. People out there need help."

Heard someone being quietly sick, in the cramped rear hold, and didn't blame them, one bit. Would have tossed a few cookies, himself, if he'd eaten anything since breakfast.

Hazel eyes on the viewscreen, working by memory and feel, Gordon Tracy keyed up the plasma antenna, sending a whip of violet-white light shooting up and into the cloud layer. Next, he plugged his music into the system, and hit _play._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2, high above the lightning-shot cloud layer-_

The Sun was near setting; bloated and red in that ash-darkened sky. A white-hot force pillar… Fischler's doing… lanced into space, away to his right. Literally the biggest, scariest thing he'd ever seen. Couldn't let that stop him, though.

Virgil listened and looked; for _what,_ he didn't quite know. Gordon was down there, somewhere. He had to be. Would send up a signal, too, because… Well, because he was a Tracy, dammit. And because Virgil was going to need help, reaching Emma.

The training sim's background data had included Thunderbird 4's approximate whereabouts, when everything went straight to hell. Given elapsed time, and the sub's best speed (160 knots), Virgil was able to come up with a search area. Sort of wide, but nobody said life was meant to be easy, or safe. Not if you were in the business of making a difference.

"C'mon, Kiddo," Virgil muttered, as he pushed forward on the yoke, sending Thunderbird 2 plunging down into Hades. "Give me a sign."

Inside those dark clouds, wind and turbulence slammed the cargo-lifter around like a tennis ball. Gritty ash clawed at the windows and almost choked both engines. Only, Virgil had used the virtual keypad to strengthen her turbines and debris screens, giving his Big Girl a fighting chance.

Visibility was crap-poor, though. Nothing to see but smoke, lightning, and occasional, wind-blown debris. Not much he could do about that. Infrared didn't help, because there were too many hot spots, and that blinding-fierce jet, but… wait a minute…

Faintly, at first, from the far southern edge of his search area, his instruments detected a constant, rhythmic sound. Tuned everything else out with a white-noise generator, and listened, _hard._ Then, he grinned.

 _"Friends in Low Places,_ backward," the pilot snorted. "Got to admit… it's creative, even if it isn't quite fixing all this."

Better yet, an inside joke. Something only his brother would think to do. Throttling up, Virgil powered straight to the source of that crashing-loud music. A hailstorm of tiny lava bombs hammered his Bird's shields, but Virgil kept going. Turned the floodlights on as he neared the ocean's probable surface, watching for reflections, or any slight flash of bright yellow. Did not want to ditch… that would be the end of them, both… but had to get close enough to see where that backward music was coming from.

Even with shields at full strength, it was tough to control the giant cargo-lifter in that ferocious, howling crosswind. Sudden downdrafts tore at her, trying to smash his Girl into towering, hundred-foot waves. Then Virgil spotted the plasma antenna, and Thunderbird 4, looking like a bath-toy in a whirlpool.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Space, Thunderbird 3, in the cockpit-_

Alan was talking, because that's what he did when nervous, happy, worried, or… well, _anytime,_ really. It wasn't a bug, okay? It was a dang _feature._ One you got for free, and then never felt lonely or bored. Not with Alan R. Tracy around.

Of course, John didn't look too happy, _or_ too convinced… but his youngest brother kept right on trying.

"See, it makes total sense, Bro. I mean, if you'd stop coding and _listen,_ for a minute! You want to get close to a white hole, which is, y'know, supposed to be impossible and junk, right?" Alan nodded agreement with himself as he spoke, sky-blue eyes wide and enthused.

But John only grunted, never taking his eyes from the virtual screen on which his work was flashing. Alan huffed a deep sigh, and forged onward, vexed that not even Captain O'Bannon seemed to be listening.

"Okay, so, what you need is an amazing, physics-bashing super fighter, like the VF-1 Valkyrie. Think about it, John. This situation _absolutely_ calls for a giant, shape-changing battle robot. Or two, even. I mean, one for me, one for you, right? You can code them up in, like, _no_ time!"

…and so on like that, only John wasn't much listening. He was programming, instead; trying to alter the simulation's physical laws. As fast as he wrote, though, something else came along and erased all his work… but didn't do anything else.

"I don't get it," he murmured to Eos/ O'Bannon. "I'm being blocked. Okay, I understand that… but something here doesn't make sense, Sweetie."

His friend-in-girlfriend's-body had a warm hand on his right shoulder, and stood peering around the copilot's seat at his screen.

"What is it that fails to resolve, John?" she enquired softly. Disgusted, Alan went back to flying his Bird and thinking of reasons to bring up the Valkyrie option. They'd reach Siberia in less than ten minutes, and had to have _some_ kind of plan. John replied, saying,

"Half of Thunderbird 5 got blown away. Why _that_ half? I could've been killed… but I wasn't. Alan could have been nailed by the hole's jet. The sim could have planted him right in its path. Instead, he arrives safely, just in time to pick my ass up. Why?"

Eos considered. Something she'd learnt, was that males of the human species relished having their shoulders and necks rhythmically clenched and released. She did this, doubtless evoking sensations of relaxation and warmth. The suit's circuitry flared and moved at her touch, branching to form new connections where her hand worked. Intriguing. She said,

"Perhaps the entity requires more data, before acting with finality, or prefers to effect just one, energy-saving strike."

John looked up and around, frowning slightly, blue-green eyes seeming lit from within.

"Then I'd better stop tipping my hand, till we're on site and ready to act," he decided, reaching up and across to press her massaging hand. Dismissed the screen and keypad, then, murmuring, "Think outside the box, Tracy."

Focusing, he saw that they were about to strike atmosphere at a reasonably safe angle. John would have come in faster and harder, but, hey… not his Bird, anymore. Almost the entire Earth was now shrouded in rolling dark ash, and flaring with storms. If it hadn't been for all those lifeless satellites and listing, unpowered space ships, he wouldn't have recognized home. Shooting straight out of that mess, vaporizing whatever got in its way, was a star-bright lance of pure force and newly-created matter. It went on forever, crossing the universe, for all he knew.

Even once they'd shut the thing down, Earth wouldn't be livable. They'd have to find and rescue survivors. Take them to Mars, or something. Pete owed him one, anyhow, being the whole reason he'd failed yesterday's test.

John squinted at the jet, thinking. Even with 3's shields on full, and windows darkened, he couldn't look straight at it, for long. Meant that approaching that gate was going to be a real bitch, except from the side, in an insanely-strong space craft. Hmm… maybe cartoon physics was _exactly_ what they needed. The astronaut looked over at his busy young brother.

"Hey, Al… what was that you were saying about Valkyries?"


	7. Chapter 7

Hi, there, guys. Nearly done. Thanks, Bow Echo and Whirl Girl, for all of your help and reviews... and thanks for the imagery, Whirl Girl. I couldn't resist using it. =)

 **7**

 _North America, nearing the Ranch-_

Kayo flew low and slow in Thunderbird Shadow, watching her silhouette flit across rock, ash and wreckage. Behind her sat one of the boys, Robert, and the Scout Master's small, honey-blonde daughter, Lilly. Three more children and Vance, himself, hung down below, in a sling made of tent cloth. _They_ were the reason she'd had to fly slowly, at nothing like Shadow's top speed. She felt like a big, black stork, delivering over-sized babies through chaos and horror.

Young Robert… who preferred the name 'Bo'… was a talkative sort, much like Alan. His nonstop, gosh-wow prattle made Kayo smile, despite the danger and worry they faced. This was all just a great big adventure to the boy, who hadn't yet wondered about his family, back home. The little girl didn't say much, besides asking to stop off somewhere and "Go potty".

Tanusha sighed, slumped a bit in her seat straps, and gave the child permission to go in her pants, much to Bo's horror.

"Breathe through your mouth!" she snapped. "We'll clean it up, later!"

Had a few close shaves with flying debris, when the wind picked up, and once nearly clipped the top of a jagged butte. Finally made it, though; cresting a swell of tall, barren foothills, to find her way home. Kayo's heart jumped at the sight of Thunderbird 1, parked between house and stable.

As Shadow didn't require much room, the girl brought her Bird in just behind Scott's, hovering first, to allow her wind-blown passengers out of their sling and onto the grey, rocky ground. Only then did she set down, scattering ash and debris. By this time, the soggy little girl was fast asleep, and Bo's blue eyes were watering. He had yanked his red tee-shirt up over his mouth and nose, gagging aloud.

Kayo shut down her Bird and popped the canopy, silently handing Lilly back down to her father, who was all thanks and apologies.

"Quite all right. No trouble at all, really," Kayo lied, longing for one of those hanging pine-tree air fresheners. Once again, she accepted a hand down that she didn't actually need, just to be kind.

"Where are we, Miss?" asked one of the boys. Tall, with a bit of scoliosis that he wore a brace for. Austin, she thought.

"We've arrived at my home in the country. Gran Roca Ranch," she told him over that biting wind, hugging herself and smiling a bit. "One of my brothers is already here. Can you guess which one?"

Another boy, with bristling pale hair and a crooked nose, said,

"That's Thunderbird 1, isn't it?! Piloted by Scott Tracy, the leader of International Rescue! When I grow up, Miss, I'm taking his job! Can we meet him, Miss? Please?" Connor, his name was. Tanusha's smile warmed a little.

"I'm sure that he'd love to meet his replacement, and all the rest of you boys… but we've got to get into the house, first. The worst of that ash may not make it through our force shields, but it's enough to damage your lungs, if you stand out here breathing all day. Come along, please."

Roger Vance had brought his baby girl's supply bag. Giving Kayo an apologetic look, he said,

"Think I could have a moment to change Lil? It's not good for her bottom to stay wet for too long."

" _Or_ my nose!" cut in Bo, rolling his eyes. "Mr. Vance, that was _gross!"_

A day earlier, his Scout Master might have shouted him down. Now, though, the man reached over and tousled Bo's golden hair, saying quietly,

"Thanks for toughing it out like soldier, Buddy. You'll make a great dad, someday."

Signaling the troop forward, Kayo said,

"This way, everyone. There might be some chocolate cake left in the fridge, if we're lucky. Last one there gets the smallest piece! Race you!"

With that, she shot forward, intending to find Scott, make some plans, and then go get the rest of her brothers.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2, battling storm winds and ash-_

Virgil had overshot Thunderbird 4. Had to bank around for another pass, keeping that shimmering plasma-antenna always in sight. He bit his lip, focusing hard, as he held his Girl steady in tearing crosswinds; waiting for Gordon's bright-yellow sub to crest another huge wave.

"Wait for it…" the pilot told himself, dark eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. Then, spotting Thunderbird 4, again, Virgil used their Emergency Capture Protocol, snapping out his Bird's force field to scoop up the sub. _"Gotcha!_ Welcome back, Kiddo!"

His wrist comm flickered and hissed. Then he heard,

"Feels like a pickup, to me. It's either weird aliens, or my brother, and since I don't want to be probed, I'm going for Virgil."

The pilot laughed, hauling back hard on his steering yoke, with Thunderbird 4 tucked up close to the hull.

"Good guess, Tadpole. And, uh… you can turn off the music, now. Sounds like a reverse cowboy bar, in here."

"I hear and obey, Lord of the bulging green monster! Where to, now? The Island? Grandma and them must be pretty worried, by now, huh? We should go let 'em know we're okay. Plus, I've got a few passengers."

Virgil nodded, though he and Gordon could see one another only in quick, snowy flashes.

"Was thinking the same thing, myself, Fish-stick. Next stop, Tracy Island."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Gran Roca Ranch, down in the lab complex-_

Scott Tracy wasn't the world's fastest coder. You wanted John, or Alan, for that. But his astronaut brother had put in some shortcuts, one of which… 'alter setting'… Scott called up, now. He wasn't looking for massive change, just a sudden gap in the floor plating, where someone was performing maintenance, and then forgot to clean up. Twelve feet deep, maybe, and ten feet in width. Just enough to balk a crazed robot, without destroying it.

From his shelter behind the atmosphere control console, Scott waited and watched, grapple gun ready. His heart was thudding, but otherwise, the pilot gave no sign at all of his stress. Max had to be somewhere nearby, could probably see Scott much better than the pilot saw _him,_ if the robot was linked to Brains' camera system. Thought he heard something… a tread-clatter, maybe… then his wrist comm hissed and went off.

"Scott, it's me, Kayo. I've brought a few friends. Where are you?"

Of all the d*mn times…! Almost without thinking, the pilot tore off that gabbling comm and threw it, right down into the floor gap he'd coded. Max reacted at once to the noise and motion, hurtling within range of Scott's ersatz weapon.

The pilot popped over the console and took hasty aim, then fired. Scored the first time, and got a good lock. Max reached with dozens of laser-tipped arms for that magnet and cable, but too late. Scott hit 'retract', bracing himself with both legs on the metal console. Nearly tore his arms from their sockets, but managed to drag Max over and into the newly-formed pit. The robot fell with a loud, ringing crash. Then, mashing a red button, Scott discharged every bit of the gun's electrical power into his would-be assassin, shorting him out.

The pilot heard a brief, shrill squeal, and then silence. Very cautiously, he peered back over the console. Saw a thin wisp of smoke from the pit, and smelt burning insulation. Right. Problem solved.

He was panting and rubber-legged, with arms that hurt almost too much to lift. Succeeded in standing up, though, when Kayo came loping into the room, followed by… Boy Scouts?

XXXXXXXXX

 _Siberia, nearing the white hole's gate, and what used to be Tomsk-_

Alan was super-psyched, because when John coded up a fictional fighter-bot, he did it _right._ Fast, too. His brother had finally stopped trying to change the sim's physical laws, and started working around them; producing something that would have made no sense at all in the real world, but worked like a charm, here. Standing fifty feet tall, white, with black and gold trim, the towering robot was every bit as awesome as Al had imagined.

The boy had seen each and every pirated episode of _Robotech_. Knew exactly what to do in his brand-new Valkyrie's cockpit. _Duh!_ Go to battloid-mode, like, immediately. He left Thunderbird 3 on autopilot, with Captain O'Bannon minding the store. Then, with John in the back seat of the world's coolest plane, Alan dropped down to a scene of complete and utter disaster.

Langstrom Fischler's secret lab was gone. For that matter, so was most of Tomsk. The Siberian Traps had burst into life, again; spewing magma and pyroclastic gases in every direction. Earthquakes shook and fractured the ground, their nonstop bellow lost in the noise of that blistering relativistic jet.

Fortunately, a fictional Veritech fighter had super abilities, and could get in where a real-world Bird could not. Closer, anyway, if not right through the gate… but close was all that John needed. They were about a hundred feet off the ground, when Alan pulled short.

"Paint's bubbling, Bro," the boy told him, shouting to be heard over thunderous, apocalyptic noise. "Are we there, yet?"

John nodded inside his helmet, seeming about as excited as ever. He'd brought along an assortment of loose, small objects, and now began to unstrap, saying,

"Make a platform for me, out of the fighter's hands. I'll stand on it."

"Um… out _there?_ " Alan objected, craning his head back to squint at his red-haired brother. _"That's_ the plan? You're going to stand there, and throw stuff? You'll fry like an egg! Can't we just shoot it, or something?"

John shrugged.

"Go ahead and try, if you want. There's, um… more going on here that just a rough training sim, Al. Someone's actively trying to harm us. Maybe kill."

Startled, Alan lined up his crosshairs and took aim at the jet, following the angle John gave him. His guns boomed and howled, causing the fighter to tumble violently backward. But all of it, every missile and depleted uranium shell, got struck by lightning, sheered off by wind, or just fizzled out.

"Whoa," he said, after expending everything the Valkyrie had by way of ordnance. "That's… that's not…"

"Not a coincidence," his brother finished. "Something's gone wrong... but maybe a small attack will work, where the bigger ones failed. Just give me someplace to stand, Alan. I'll try to choke the thing off."

The boy had serious doubts, but couldn't very well argue with his older brother, especially not in a training simulation. They'd both lose points, and maybe all this was just part of their testing scenario.

"Okay, just… y'know… be careful, and crap. More than usual, I mean. A _lot_ more than usual."

John smiled at him.

"I get it. I'll stay in one piece, this time," he said. "Promise."

Alan swung the big robot's arms around, then got the canopy open, admitting just a hint of the searing, tornadic winds outside of their shielding. John stood up and tethered himself. Then he clambered onto the robot's left cannon arm, and made his way down to that double-hand platform. Stood there a second, staring at something so beautiful and awful that it defied description… except that it looked like Creation, and had to be stopped.

Nice thing about white holes was, any amount of matter, even a single hydrogen atom, would destroy them, if it got past a certain perimeter. Trick was, getting it in there. Black holes consumed, and let nothing escape. White holes erupted, and let nothing enter… unless you messed with their physics, behind the scenes... And all this had seemed like a much better plan, up in Thunderbird 3.

Reaching into a sash pocket, John pulled out a handful of bits and pieces, and then began pitching. He could _feel_ the sim fighting him, though; raising sudden winds to blast his small missiles aside, or batting them off with flying debris. Once, part of a house came hurtling at them, and Alan was forced to dodge, nearly losing his brother, in the process.

At last, standing there on a hovering fighter, between the boiling sky and shuddering Earth, John was down to one last missile; his multi-tool.

"Okay," he said, to whoever was (maybe) trying to kill them all, "I don't know what we've done to piss you off, but enough is enough. Got a problem, be man enough to face us in person. Otherwise, back… the h*ll… _off!"_

He threw the multi-tool, putting every bit of his suit's force into that pitch. It arced outward. Perfect trajectory, exact speed. But the simulation struck, again. A lava bomb flew out of nowhere, melting the spinning tool in midflight. It was just then that the wind dropped, the earth stopped shaking, and the scene grew terribly still.

John sensed… challenge? Hostile curiosity? As if somebody wanted to know what he meant to do, now. Well… sh*t. Out of projectiles. On the other hand, he did have _one_ last thing left to hurl at that gate, and into the hole. Carefully, he took off his gold sash, patted the pocket containing Eos' backup disk, and hung it from one of the fighter-bot's massive trigger fingers, just in case. Then, backing up a bit to get just the right angle, John tore off his helmet, and threw _that_.


	8. Chapter 8

A mini! =) Thanks, Bow Echo and Whirl Girl. Your reviews mean the world to me.

 **8**

 _Over Siberia, in a very tight situation-_

Because there was always plan B, he was able to do one thing more. In that brief instant of challenge, when their assailant was completely distracted by the sim, John ghosted his way in, and changed all of the system's security codes. Nothing fancy, just _'pizza-no-mushrooms'_. In effect, he locked their startled intruder right out. And all at once, the game changed completely.

In that moment, a small, rather heavy and roundish object was flung at the gate; seeming laughably weak as a spit-wad, or bunt. It hung there a moment. Seemed to grow suddenly flat, then broke apart into pixels; instantly atomized. How many bright, flaring particles actually got through, didn't matter. All that it took, was _one._

Between this heartbeat, this pent breath and the next, the monster imploded with a vast, crashing roar. Its jet shut off completely, and the whole world went suddenly dark. A massive, screaming shock wave ripped outward in all directions at once, shredding the clouds to ribbons, and smashing whatever it hit. Mostly.

Had Alan been flying anything else but a simulated Valkyrie, he would have been pulped. As it was, he barely had time to close the robot's big metal hands over John (like a footballer catching and holding a butterfly). Then he was blasted across the sky like a comet. Took him two hundred miles to control his velocity and stop tumbling end over end. Magma-earth, cloud-sky… magma-earth, cloud-sky… like that.

The giant robot took damage, because at the last second, when Alan realized what his smart-stupid brother was up to, he'd screamed and shifted _all_ of its shielding to John. Which explained why the astronaut wasn't Mr. No-helmet Toast-face, right now. Left the poor robot a pocked, sparking mess, but no critical failures, this time. Not on Alan's watch.

And, for the record, even beat-up and shorting, his robot was super-awesome to fly. Feeling his small movements transformed into giant, mechanical ones was all he wanted from life; now, and frickin' _forever._

John was less enthused, but he'd just endured five minutes bouncing around the inside of a big robot hand-cage, and looked like he'd spent the night in someone's cement mixer. As the bootleg-author of this marvelous craft, though, Alan still wanted to kiss him. For that and, you know… actually pulling the plug on Fischler's white hole.

"Dude!" Alan greeted him, when John finally got back inside, gold sash draped loosely over one shoulder. "We _got_ to build one of these, in real life!"

John started to shake his head, then winced a little, and settled for frowning.

"Won't work," he said, strapping in. "They're called the _laws_ of physics, Alan… not the 'd*mn fine ideas'. Too much mass conversion involved in transforming this thing, and thermodynamics just won't play ball. Believe me, I've tried."

 _"I'll_ find a way," Alan insisted, nestling deeper into the cyber-linked pilot's chair. "And not just in sim, either. Watch me."

It was just about then that their long-distance comm finally came back online.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Elsewhere-_

Braman's intelligence was based on gaming code, and he had just learnt three very important things. First, he now knew that powerful forces were gathered against him. Second, he'd plumbed the full nature and strengths of all the Tracys, whom his creator regarded as 'family'. Thirdly, Braman had discovered that the world outside contained options. His creator was not the only being to whom he might turn. Therefore, it seemed expedient to abandon this game while the pawns were still rallying, and seek for another, much broader playing field. Stalemate for now… and rematch quite soon.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Gran Roca Ranch, the main lab complex-_

Kayo just about leapt onto Scott and hugged him ferociously. Not being sarcastic or funny or combative, this time. Like a girl who wasn't alone in the world, anymore.

 _"Scott!_ You're okay!" she whispered. "You're safe!"

Then, pulling back from his arms, Kayo looked up at her brother's handsome, weary, abraded face and asked,

"The others? Where are they? Have you heard from John, or… or Virgil?"

Much as he wanted to comfort his sister, Scott had to shake his head, 'no'.

"Not yet, Kay… but they were spread out all over the place, and just as blindsided as _we_ were. Brains has to be in here, someplace, because I saw Max. So…"

A loud burst of static interrupted the pilot in mid-sentence. Then,

 _"Woo-hoo!_ Somebody paid the telephone bill!" Gordon called out, sounding as cocky as ever. "Who's out there? Scott? John? Alan?"

Grinning, Scott seized Kayo's slim wrist to bring up her comm.

"This is Scott. I'm back at the ranch, with Kayo. Is Virge there?"

"Aqua-lad wouldn't be flying this high, if I _wasn't,_ " cut in Virgil, his deep, booming voice making the girl shiver a little. "We're headed out to the Island, Scott. Figure a little recon and rescue's in order. What d'you hear from John and Alan, or Dad?"

The next voice to break in was John's

"Well, I've been better," he said, with almost Taylor-style build-up. "On the other hand…"

"We slammed the lid on that white hole!" blurted Alan, excitedly. "You shoulda seen it, guys! It was great! John codes up this awesome Veritech fighter, I shoot the hole for a while… y'know, to weaken it up, then John strolls out there, takes off his helmet, and throws it into the gate, and _BAM!_ The hole winks out and the jet cuts off like a flashlight!"

"What d'you know about that," Virgil marveled, over the comm. "Guess backward country songs really _do_ fix everything." And yet, the sim was still running.

The wide-eyed kids and their scout master stood there transfixed, listening to the Tracys' by-play and rivalry, till a new, much deeper voice called out,

"Boys, Tanusha? Is this thing working? Are you there?"

"DAD!" everyone answered at once. Scott broke in above the general clamor, though, saying, "We're listening, Sir, and the white hole's been destroyed. What do you need us to do, next?"

"Thank God, you're safe. You have no idea how… Anyway. There isn't much of a government left, but I'm running it, for the moment, with Colonel Casey. We need to make contact with Mars. If I know Pete McCord, he's already moving. Just have to find him a place to land a heavy transport. I've got about a thousand people in London, and Penny's located another three-hundred in France. Need to get everyone we can round up, off-world to safety."

Scott looked around; counted heads.

"We've got six people here, Sir, not counting Kayo and me."

"I've got three," said Gordon, very quietly. There was ache in that voice, for people unsaved and ships lost.

"Um… there's Captain O'Bannon, plus seventeen more in my Bird," Alan told them all. "And Uncle Lee's coming, too. He's on his way in from the Moon. Siberia's kinda trashed, though. If anyone ever finds Fischler…" The boy didn't complete his sentence. Didn't need to.

"Maybe he'd better _stay_ lost," Scott growled. Then, "Dad, Thunderbird 3 can be there in just an hour or so. John and Alan are on their way." (Which was true… _now.)_ "I've got Virgil and Gordon checking on the Island. They'll see if… they'll _find_ Grandma, and the Union Jack crew."

"D*mn right, we will," murmured Virgil, audible because deep voices carry.

Their father sounded exhausted, but deeply relieved as he said,

"It won't be easy, Boys… Princess. The world that we knew is gone, maybe forever… but every life we save means that Earth still has a chance, a hundred, two hundred years from now, whenever it's safe to come back. Be careful. Watch yourselves… but find every last survivor, and bring them to safety. International Rescue has a job to do."


	9. Chapter 9

Success! Finally, I can post this chapter! XD

Seriously, big, warm thanks and hugs to those who have followed along with me on this little adventure. You know, the usual suspects... Bow Echo, Akimakel, Tikatu, Whirl Girl and "Guest" (you know who you are!)

 **9**

 _Thunderbird 2, cruising high over the cloud layer, with 4 tucked up underneath-_

There could have been any number of reasons why the Island wasn't answering hails, and Virgil Tracy ran through them all, in his mind. One grim scenario after another slashed through his thoughts, as the pilot spoke to the Ranch, and flew his Bird.

 _'It's going to be okay,'_ he told himself. _'They're fine. Just… no power, or something. That's all.'_

He didn't bother Gordon, because the aquanaut was busy in 4, tending to his passengers, two of whom had slipped into shock. Just finding the Island was a dicey proposition, because he couldn't see through those heavy black clouds, and had no GPS. What he _could_ do was use dead-reckoning of time, speed and fuel consumption against air resistance, to figure out how far he'd gone; keeping that red, swollen sun hard at his right.

Up here, the winds were relatively mild, and the light clear (if blood-coloured) above an unbroken layer of boiling dark clouds. Down there… was another world; no longer the Earth that he'd known too well to think about loving. Had to keep reminding himself: _'It's just a training sim, Pal. Worst you'll get out of this is a failing grade.'_

Ran into some trouble when the Moon rose, because their gashed, newly-ringed satellite was spewing a storm of rock and debris. Looked like a vomiting jack-o-lantern. Most of its ejecta burnt up in the atmosphere, but a few chunks were large enough to blaze past Thunderbird 2 and strike the lightning-shot clouds, raising great, dark ash plumes beneath. Nothing hit him, thank God. He had little defense, as his force shields were busy hanging onto Thunderbird 4, and keeping them (sort of) aerodynamic. Still scary, though, because the d*mn things traveled so fast. More like lightning than stone.

On the bright side (and there were so _few)_ that blazing white-hole jet had finally cut off. Had to hand it to Alan and John… they did good work. Also a plus, he had _some_ instruments back, and thought to switch from visual scan to infrared; reasoning that a small island with living people and functional machines ought to burn like a torch against the frigid ocean. Couldn't see very far, though.

Finally, there was no putting it off. He'd reached the point in his flight where fuel consumption and time use told Virgil that he was in the right vicinity. Cleared his throat and surreptitiously crossed himself before saying,

"Better strap in down there, Kiddo. We're going below, and it might get rough. ETA… anywhere from five minutes to twenty, depending."

Gordon didn't ask questions.

"Understood, Bro. Soon as we're low enough, drop me. We can cover more territory, that way."

Virgil smiled a little.

"Good thinking, Fish-stick. Guess I'll keep you, after all." (Which was an old joke, harking back to his early annoyance with loud little brothers.)

Gordon snorted.

"Yeah? Well, _I'm_ still considering my options. A lot less crowded, at Lee's place."

"You're an idiot. There's safety in numbers. Hang on, here goes…"

And with that, Virgil cut air speed and pushed the steering yoke forward, nosing his Big Girl down. His heart was hammering, and his mouth went dry as Virgil tried to see everything at once, and react before shrieking winds, flying debris or blazing moon-chunks could blast him out of the sky.

Scanners turned patchy in that homicidal soup of ash, water and vaporized rock. Must've been a trick of the atmosphere, or something; just old, bouncing waves… but, for a second, he caught a very faint distress call. Sounded like… well, like Langstrom Fischler.

"What the h*ll?!" he heard Gordon mutter. _Not_ his imagination, then. His brother had picked it up, too. Something inside of him hardened to stone.

"No telling where that's from, or how long ago," Virgil growled, his dark eyes narrow and flinty. "We've got work to do _here_ , first."

"Work to do forever, as far as I'm concerned," Gordon replied. In his mind, Fischler had murdered a planet, with all of its oceans. "If I rescued the bastard, I'd just have to turn right around and kill him."

"Somebody else's problem," Virgil told him. "Mind on the mission, Tadpole. I'll, um… let Scott know. This is _his_ kind of development. He gets paid to make tough calls. All I do is lift things and help people who frickin' deserve it."

To his credit, Virgil Tracy _did_ send a message. Just, not immediately. Had to give John and Alan time to get closer to London than Siberia, first. Make of that what you will; he loved his brothers, and didn't want them thrown back in harm's way, just to rescue Goddam Fischler.

Virgil went perilously low, before releasing Thunderbird 4; matching speed and direction with sky-scraper waves before cutting the Yellow Bird loose. Had his floodlights on full, and still couldn't see _crap._ Less than a hundred yards, in any direction. The sub dropped away like an arcing stone, glittering faintly blue with static, and with Thunderbird 2's badly-stretched shielding.

"Be careful," said Virgil, as the sub skipped, bounced, almost flipped, then began to descend through roiling muck.

"Okay, Mom. I'll eat well, write home every day, and be sure to wear clean socks. Anything else?"

"Yeah, smart-ass. Don't die. And find the Island. Last one there fixes dinner, for a week."

"Aww… you really _do_ like my sardine-macaroni-jalapeño surprise!" Gordon joked, before getting back to work.

"About as much as you like grilled cheese and pickles," said Virgil. "Now, shut up and search. They've gotta be here, someplace, and time's a-wasting."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Gran Roca Ranch, down in the main lab complex-_

Scott, Kayo and their wide-eyed guests were searching, too. Only, they were looking for Brains, and they stayed together. Just as well, because A: the lab was a hazardous place, and B: the boys all wanted to follow Scott, who'd shifted right into 'Big Hero' mode. Not his fault. Worship always did that to him.

Tanusha just sighed and put up with the suddenly lengthened stride, steely gaze and deepened voice. ' _Men,_ ' she thought. Somewhat intimidated by Scott Tracy, the slightly balding scout master kept closer to Kayo, his sleeping young daughter clutched tight in his arms.

Moving slowly from room to room, searching thoroughly, they at last found the team's engineer. He was lying on the floor of the training control center, pinned beneath a bank of mysteriously fallen machinery. Alive, but only just.

"Got a pulse," Kayo assured them, having placed a slim hand on the man's pale, clammy throat. "He's breathing, too."

"Right," Scott decided. "Kay, you and I will raise this console, while the boys and Mr. Vance fetch some first-aid gear, get a board underneath, and then pull the victim to safety. Everyone understand?"

A chorus of "Yes, Sirs" (and one eye-roll) met his orders. Scott nodded at his sister, and then went to one corner of the fallen computer-storage bank, which looked like a big, metal bookshelf. Kayo stomped to the other end, got her gloved hands beneath, and then looked over at Scott, awaiting his signal.

Jason and Connor stood by with a wooden backboard. Austin, Vance and Bo crouched alongside, ready to help slip it under Brains, once he was no longer pinned. Small Lilly, meanwhile, slept peacefully nearby, wrapped in her father's coat.

"Okay," Scott told them. "On my mark. One… two… _three."_

Together, he and his sister raised that massive computer bank off of their friend. The scouts went to work like the well-trained team that they were; first securing, then moving their target in proper first-aid manner. While they huddled around the stricken engineer like a flock of reverse-vultures, Scott held up that heavy machinery.

He wasn't just posing there, though. A message had come over his wrist-comm; some sort of forwarded distress call. Took Scott a moment to work out just _whose_ voice he was hearing. Then, his muscles bunched, and his jaw clamped tight. _Fischler._ Calling for help.

Kayo had heard it, too. Green eyes gone suddenly narrow, she looked hard at her brother… who would have cursed violently, if not for all of those clean-hearted boys and their scout master (plus one sleeping baby). _Now_ what?!

XXXXXXXXXX

 _London, quite far from what had been the World Council Building-_

The old underground system and air-raid shelters were pretty much all that remained, and not all of those. The same force that had scarred their moon and shifted Earth out of its orbit had collapsed hundreds of miles of fortified Tube, including that bit running under the channel. The Heathrow terminals remained, however, and Jeff Tracy's small flock had gathered within, along with whatever supplies they could scrounge from the still-burning rubble.

Colonel Tracy was a beacon. A hero. People were drawn to him like wasps to a half-empty soda can, because he radiated confidence, calm and control. They expected a savior. Jeff did his best.

Already, he'd succeeded in contacting Mars Base. As expected, Pete McCord was on his way, at the head of a transport fleet. Further out, Jove Station and the Proxima Colonies had offered assistance, which Jeff accepted on behalf of Earth, though they'd take quite some time to arrive. Lee Taylor was a few hours in-bound, flying a commandeered GDF shuttle. And, of course, he had his sons, and Tanusha.

Jeff didn't wonder much at his own miraculous survival; why he and Colonel Casey alone, of the GDF top brass, had been out of the office that day. They'd lived. They were needed. That was all.

He bundled up and donned an air mask to go topside through Heathrow 1, stepping out past shattered glass and twisted steel beams. The wind had dropped somewhat, he noticed; still gusty and cold, but no longer tornado-force. More 'howling gale', with dust, ash and embers thrown in.

Jeff winced at the sight of flipped aircraft and charred buildings; trying to focus on salvage possibilities, rather than carnage. One of his group needed anti-depressant meds. Another had to have insulin. No problem. They'd manage. Had to be an unburnt pharmacy somewhere…

Looking up, he squinted through this mask at a bright spark in the cloudy sky overhead. It grew very quickly from pinpoint to fireball, at last becoming a familiar, red-and-white rocket, somewhat the worse for end-of-the-world wear. Coming down pretty fast, too. Jeff shook his masked head, recognizing his second son's devil-may-care flying style. Then he frowned, recalling that Alan now flew Thunderbird 3.

The rocket landed with a cataclysmic roar, about half a mile away. Before Jeff had recovered from the noise and blast, something else landed, too. It hit the ground on two feet, first dropping to a crouch, giant cannon in both hands, then rising with fluid athleticism. Produced various grinding, clanking and whirring noises as it scanned the perimeter, cannon still at the ready. Jeff blinked. Wiped at his faceplate. Nope. Still there. A giant robot.

Jeff Tracy was enough of an aeronautical engineer that he began thinking through the probability of such an aircraft. A suspicion flared in his mind, suddenly, but he pushed it aside, thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat, and began walking out there to meet his newly-arrived sons. After all, what was anyone's life but a dream between nightfalls?

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2, over the tortured Pacific-_

It was Gordon who found the Island, but Virgil who got there, first. On the bright side, that ancient volcano hadn't erupted… much. On the dark side, a mega-tsunami had raked the mountain half-bare, slamming Union Jack up into what little forest remained. The cutter was folded nearly in half, but there were sparks of light moving around it. People.

Virgil cut on his brightest floodlights, swinging them this way and that, as he searched for a place to put down. Thunderbird 2 was ace at many things. Landing on tilted surfaces wasn't one of them. He'd have to find some sort of airstrip, or hard surface.

Meanwhile, the lights below seemed to gather, then wave all around. They'd spotted him, and were signaling. Virgil flashed his own high beams a few times in response, just to let them… _her_ … know they'd been sighted.

His Bird's usual runway was choked with sea wrack and debris, but Virgil cleared it with five or six long blasts of his VTOL rockets. Wasted a crap-ton of fuel, but got the job done. Looking up, he could see an ant-like stream of small golden lights coming down the dark mountain to meet him.

He sat there a moment, before unstrapping. Doing every stupid thing he could, before getting up to actually find out.

"She'll be fine," he told the universe, very quietly. "Grandma, too. In fact, they all made it, because… because it's just a sim, and Brains wouldn't do that to us. I know he wouldn't."

Then, taking a very deep breath, Virgil Tracy triggered pod release, and raised his Girl up on her four strong, telescoping legs. Wind was a problem, but the force shield would protect her… till she ran out of power, anyhow. And that was another good reason to hurry.

Moving fast, now, Virgil unstrapped, vaulted to his feet, and then raced back down to the pod, and his exo-suit.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Meanwhile, back at the Ranch-_

Scott held up his corner of the computer bank for another long moment, near white-hot with wrath and with shock. _Fischler._ Alive. His first thought... _'Screw him. Sonuvabitch deserves whatever he gets!'..._ did him no credit, at all. Then, rapidly, he started to think. Thunderbird 2 was out at the Island, retrieving survivors. _Then_ , the big cargo-lifter was needed in Africa, to save that lost safari group. He'd _promised._ Thunderbird Shadow was too small and light to pit against winds and chaos like those in Siberia, and Scott refused to risk his sister's life for the idiot who'd caused all this, in the first place. Thunderbird 3 had reached London, by this time, where John and Alan were _absolutely_ needed, to help Dad. So, yeah... that left only Scott, himself.

"Scott! Hello? Earth to Tracy! You there?"

He looked around with a sharp, guilty start; saw Kayo giving him an exasperated stare.

"You can put it down, now, Hero. The scouts have got him clear, and I ought to be over there, helping. Just, talk to me, before you send anyone after Fischler, okay?"

Very gently and deliberately, Scott set his corner of the big machine bank down, matching his efforts to hers. Then, straightening, he said,

"Dad left me in charge for a reason, Kay. We're not a d*mn committee. I'll make the best decision I can, based on the facts I've got. End of story. Keep me posted on Brains, though. Hope his condition here doesn't mean anything about the situation out _there,"_ he worried, gesturing vaguely upward. The real world, he meant; outside of this Godawful training sim. Tanusha scowled.

"It never has, in the past," she reminded him, adding, "Of course, it's never been this rough in the past, either. Do we have any way to contact our dear, loving trainer?"

Scott blinked a few times, rolling his head around on a tense neck and aching shoulders. Then, he looked straight up at the ceiling and said,

"Brains, what's going on, out there? Are you alright? Why did Max come after me, like that?"

There was no response at all. No sounds, beyond the beeping and flash of equipment, and the occasional rumble of Yellowstone, far away to the north.

"So much for the easy way," Scott muttered. Then, glancing back over at Kayo, who stood with her arms folded, and her expression carefully neutral, he said, "There is a 'panic button', isn't there? I mean, we talked about adding one, back when Brains decided to add a computer simulation vector to training. So... where is it? How do we turn this d*mn thing _off?"_


	10. Chapter 10

Uploaded in one try! Woo-hoo! Many thanks and hugs delivered to Bow Echo, Tikatu, Whirl Girl and Guest, for all of their wonderful, helpful reviews.

 **10**

 _Tracy Island, shrouded in windy and ash-laden gloom-_

Virgil Tracy rejected sentiment, and he shoved aside worry. He was here to do a job; to find and rescue endangered people. That was all. Thinking this way made life easier, as he climbed the distance from airstrip to on-coming crowd in his powered green exo-suit; cutting a path through whatever debris he couldn't just hurl aside.

The footing was tricky, with sodden, uprooted trees, chunks of smashed coral, and shards of the observation deck littering a field of dense grey mud. Wind blew, and ash swirled. Down below, the ocean crashed and hissed like a rabid monster. Other than that, and the thin line of shifting lights up ahead, the jungle felt terribly silent and still. Stank, too; of sea life gone very much ripe.

Virgil made his own noise as he climbed. The exo-suit (once bright green, now gritty and dark with soot) whirred, buzzed and thumped. Virgil himself grunted and swore (but quietly, in case Grandma could hear him); occasionally bounding like the Hulk over obstacles he couldn't just cut through. His shoulder light was on, rather dimly. Power use was a major concern.

Took him fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to climb his way up to that swarm of approaching lights. Then, he was surrounded by dirty, bruised, sweaty sailors and marines. They looked like insects or aliens in their gas masks, but the voices were familiar. Virgil pressed a button and stepped out of his exo-suit. He was back-slapped and pounded, greeted by men and women near collapse from exhaustion and effort.

The one he most wanted to see came forward, then, flanked by a pair of marines. The h*ll with protocol. Virgil reached out and pulled Emma Kraft into his arms, where she burrowed for just a moment, before pulling free.

"Glad to see you, Tracy," she told him, in a voice that held many layers. Squeezed his hand in her own work-gloved one, then dropped it. "We've got shipmates… a couple of Rodriguez's people… trapped below decks. Been trying to reach them for forty-six hours straight, but it's been slow going."

Rodriguez, newly become a lieutenant, leaned forward a little; almost shaking with tension in that dust-swirling circle of gathered lights and shadowy folk.

"Couple of dumb kids, Sir. Barely out of recruit training. They were down there evacuating the engine crew when Jack folded up like a pocket-knife. Wounded and thirsty, but they've been tapping for help, and we've tapped back that we'd find a way in."

He didn't ask, and he didn't have to. Virgil nodded understanding, saying,

"Right. Let's go get 'em." Then, the big pilot cut on his wrist com, which had sound, if no holo. "Gordon, what's your ETA? We've got a situation up here, and we need every hand on the job."

The comm crackled, briefly. Then they heard,

"Working on it, Bro. Seas are a little rough. Maybe you noticed? My slipway's clogged up, but I've been cutting a path. Send me your coordinates, and I'll meet up as soon as I can. Got some folks here who could use a doctor, if they're taking new patients, over there."

Emma snorted, and seized Virgil's comm hand.

"I think he can squeeze you in," she responded, drily. "Can your passengers walk, or will you need transport?"

"Umm…" they heard a faint rustling noise, as Gordon looked over one shoulder. "Got two in shock, and one mobile customer, but not in condition for a long hike over rough terrain, or anything."

"We'll send a crew down to meet you," Emma told him. She knew the layout of that warren of tunnels and underground hangars quite well, by now. "In the meantime, stay safe, and keep us in the loop, Sailor."

Gordon responded with,

"Yes, Ma'am," and then got back to his own obstacle course, saying, "See you topside in a few, Guys."

After that, and a quick return to his exo-suit, Virgil Tracy cleared a path up to Union Jack. The mortally wounded ship looked even worse, up close. She'd been slammed directly into the mountainside by wave after mighty rogue wave; was bent and twisted like a grey letter "L". Rope ladders and platforms had been set up to assist with boarding, but Virgil, not trusting them to hold his exo-clad weight, simply climbed up the hull using magnetic boot soles and gecko-gloves. Emma swarmed up the ladder beside him, pointing out damage in a physician's dry, clinical voice. Rodriguez was right behind her.

Virgil shook a few more hands on the wet, buckled deck, then got right to work. The Union Jack crew had managed to cut their way through two collapsed decks, but now they were down to hand tools and muscle. Virgil's arrival changed all that. In his exo-suit, with Rodriguez and Kraft there to shift wreckage behind him, the cargo pilot was able to power straight down to the trapped marines, who were near the engine room, well aft.

As Dad liked to say, _'When you can't find a door, you_ _make_ _one'_ , and Virgil Tracy's road through the crumpled ship could've been followed by elephants and a brass band. Gordon caught up about forty-five minutes after their conversation, med-kit and plasma cutter in hand.

"Sorry about that," he panted, on leaping down through a newly-torn hole in the deck. "Looked in on Grandma, first."

Virgil straightened from cutting through a distorted bulkhead. Just barely remembered to switch off his laser before turning around.

"She's okay?" he demanded, having stubbornly, superstitiously resisted asking earlier. Gordon nodded, as Virgil pulled him into a quick, rough side-hug.

"Broken arm, cracked ribs. Nothing too serious. They had to dig her out of the house, though… and she's still full of piss and vinegar. Threatened to beat me with her splint, if I didn't go help you with the ship."

Virgil grinned down at his weary younger brother, then let him go.

"Sounds like Grandma," he admitted. "Back to work, Buddy. Saving the world, one piece at a time."

"Just like always," Gordon agreed. "Chief of the Boat says to be careful. Some of the lower compartments are still flooded."

He shook hands with Emma and Rodriguez, then began helping Virgil to cut, tear and shift. Red, battery-powered battle lanterns provided illumination, but mostly they worked by feel, and by Kraft's knowledge of her ship. In her own way, Emma mourned as she clambered through Union Jack; staying flinty in the face of shrieking metal and popping rivets, keeping her mind on the mission.

With the help of two highly-motivated Tracys, they soon reached engineering, where the two marines were trapped in a half-flooded space roughly the size of a closet. Had she not already been in love with the guy, Emma would have fallen hard for Virgil Tracy right _then,_ when he peeled back a section of decking, then stooped to lift a battered nineteen-year-old girl from the mud, and hand her to Rodriguez and Gordon.

"See what Marine Corps maintenance does to ships?" he joked, holding out his own half-filled canteen. "Bet you won't let _these_ two down here, again."

The other one, a skinny young fellow with freckles and cracked glasses, had been the one tapping. In slightly better shape, he saluted the Captain and Lieutenant Rodriguez; gasping out a reporting statement before pitching face-first into cold, muddy seawater. Emma lunged for her crewman, who was heavier than he looked. Her boots slipped on the warped, slimy deck. She'd have fallen, maybe, but Virgil snagged her utility belt; holding Kraft while she fished out the boy.

"Kind of nice to have around, Tracy… you know that?" Kraft murmured, as he pulled them back up to safe footing. He winked at her through his helmet glass, saying,

"Remember that, Angel, when I steal the blankets, drink the last beer, or leave the toilet seat up," he kidded. "Handy in a pinch, cheap to feed, and … _talented._ What more could you ask?"

Pushing her mask to the top of her muddy blonde head, Emma smiled back at her man.

"Kids," she said. "I could ask for a passel of kids, Mister."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _London, near the Heathrow 1 Underground station-_

Jeff Tracy (he thought), strode out to meet his sons, who disembarked to make their way over. Easier for John than for Alan, who'd had to clamber out, and then jump. Kid was positively glowing, though; talking a mile a millisecond about his amazing 'Valkyrie'.

Jeff shook their hands, giving both boys a swift shoulder clasp in the process. Never very demonstrative, he nevertheless loved both of them dearly, and all of their siblings, too.

"Thank you for coming, Boys," he shouted over the wind, turning back for the distant tube entrance. "This way. We've got two situations to deal with, both of them urgent. First is a med-run. Some of my people need more than just aspirin and first aid. Alan, if that monstrosity of yours can do all you claim it can, I'm going to send you out shopping. Dig up any chemists' you can find, and clean out their stock. Grab whatever looks unspoiled, and bring it back. Insulin, antibiotics, depression meds… anything. There's a couple of EMTs in the group, local guys. Take one of them with you. Understood?"

The boy nodded eagerly, his sky-blue eyes wide and intent.

"Yes, Sir! I got this, Dad. You can count on me!"

Jeff Tracy nodded back and smiled, his craggy face momentarily lightening.

"Good boy," he said. "Stay in close contact, and look out for refugees. Don't want to leave anyone behind, if we can help it. Set beacons, wherever there's someone who needs assistance."

Alan gave them a little salute/ wave, then jogged off for the tube's entrance, eager to find his EMT and get started. Jeff watched for a bit, then turned to face his red-haired older son, who'd remained quiet, so far.

"John…" he began, then hesitated, thinking things over. "Job two is getting these people set for transport to Mars… which is due to begin in a couple of days. But, um… if you don't mind my asking, Son…" he paused again, seeming to struggle with more than cold, gritty wind and logistics. "Tell me the truth. No BS, no sugar-coating. This is a training simulation, isn't it? And if _I_ just now figured that out, then I'm not real, either. True?"

John Tracy opened his mouth to reply, then shut it, again. There just was no good, easy answer.

"True," he admitted, at last. "But, I'm not sure how close to the end we are, Sir. And, in here, you're still my dad." Like O'Bannon was his girlfriend, and this tormented city was London. "What do you need me to do? I've got some passengers to offload, including Global-1's crew, so I'll need as much protective gear as you can spare, but other than that, I'm at your disposal."

Jeff considered. Looking around at the wreckage-strewn airport, he said,

"Priority one is making a space for Pete to set down on. Assuming he's flying an HT-72, he'll need several hundred square yards of clear, level ground. Think 3's grappling arms and tractor beams are up to the job?"

John nodded.

"Absolutely, Sir. If not, they will be when I get through with them." Then, as another thought struck, he mused, "These things are designed to run until we've achieved their primary goal."

"I know that, Son," Jeff replied, heading for the tunnel, once more. "What's your point?"

"Well… I'm a coder. Better than Brains, whatever he says. What's to stop me from re-writing a line or two, so that _we_ can get out of this… but the sim keeps running at 1:10 speed and low power, on a back disk, somewhere. I mean… if you want me to. It's a crap scenario you've been handed…"

"But better than total oblivion," Jeff finished for his son and fellow astronaut. "Besides, I've got plans. We'll turn this thing around before you know it, and find a way to recolonize Earth."

They walked a bit farther. Then, Jeff said,

"You'd do that? All we are is code, written to believe that we're real."

"Sure, I would," John replied. "Call it another rescue; free, on the side." And then, pulling a very old astronaut prank, John keyed his wrist comm to Space Corps frequencies and said, "Hey, Dad… are you a turtle?"

Caught, Jeff glowered at him, then shook his head and started to laugh. Unless he wanted to buy his son, and everyone listening, a drink, there was only one response.

"You bet your sweet ass," he chuckled, over the sound of Charles Conrad, Lee Taylor and Pete McCord, laughing their butts off. "…and no complaints when I pull that same stunt at your wedding, someday."

John wasn't worried. Matrimony seemed dim and unlikely; much less real than the apocalyptic simulation he suddenly needed to save.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 1, in the air over Gran Roca Ranch-_

Scott Tracy was between a rock, and a very hard place, indeed. He didn't _want_ to rescue Langstrom Fischler. Wasn't sure what he'd do if he reached the source of that weak, wandering signal, and found Fischler alive. Yet… they were International Rescue, period. Not _'International Rescue Whoever We Feel Like, and to h*ll with the Rest'._ He was duty-bound to go and have a look; rendering what aid he could, because someone had called him. Only the fact that this mess was a training simulation made it at all possible for Scott to act. That, and the dressing-down he'd get from Brains and Grandma, if he _didn't._

So, the scowling pilot kissed his sister, shook hands with Roger Vance and the boys, then took to the air once again.

"But, if he says anything… makes _one_ excuse… I'll tape his mouth shut, and stow him in the equipment bin!"

And any other distress call… h*ll, a kitten stuck in a _tree…_ got priority. Pulling away from the ranch, Scott Tracy passed through their shimmering blue force bubble and shot back out into chaos, burning hard for Siberia. For the rescue he _didn't_ want to perform.

XXXXXXXX

 _Gran Roca Ranch, down in the lab complex-_

Kayo's first order of business was to help Roger and his Scout Troop care for Brains, who remained unconscious, but stable. His condition troubled the girl, who was sure that it meant something about the situation 'beyond'. Very much, she wanted to peek up out of the sim, and find out what was happening. That, or talk to her brother, John. He was busy, though. They all were.

So, ticking off items on her doomsday "to do" list, Kayo got Jason and Bo to help her bring in the horses. A job of work it was, too; even using the broad lower hangar ramp. The horses were badly spooked. Had to be soothed, blindfolded, and led from stable to hanger, one at a time. Never occurred to her to ask what Mars would do with four horses. They were family; many times more deserving of rescue than Langstrom Fischler.

Funny thing was, all four animals responded to Kayo's flat singing voice. Nervous and skittish, they nevertheless followed along as she first hummed, then sang every off-key number in her repertoire: 'Happy Birthday', 'Take Me Out to the Ball Game', and 'One World, One Dream'.

Velvet ears would swivel, tails would flick, and one by one, horses would move; even big, disputatious Apollo. The boys joined in with gusto; their reedy, adolescent warbles sounding a lot like Alan's. Made Tanusha smile (after swearing them to eternal silence on her special technique).

Once they'd got Apple, Billy, Summer and Apollo inside, with plenty of fodder, bedding and water, the girl turned her mind to other things. Namely, that "panic button". Scott was right; every training session was supposed to have one, in case she or one of her brothers became too ill or upset to continue. To Tanusha's knowledge, no one had ever "pushed the red button", but they could have done. Right? No one would consider them weak, or contemptible, for opting out of a no-win situation… would they?

As the scouts and their leader fussed with the horses, Kayo first checked on Brains, then slipped off to think. The training arena, she decided. It had to be there. Otherwise, how could a faltering test subject hope to reach the bloody thing?

Nodding to herself, the girl headed down through the lab, at one point passing a pit containing the deactivated remains of Max. More unsettling weirdness. Kayo peered into the hole, bit her lip, and kept moving.

When Hackenbacker was present, rocketing from station to station and chattering away in his musically accented voice, the lab seemed perfectly wholesome and normal. Abandoned like this, it was almost sinister; full of sounds half-heard and movements nearly detected. Of course, that might have been because the simulation couldn't totally fool her. Part of Kayo's mind was in contact with reality, and refused to let go.

Best not to encourage that touch while moving around, though. Tripping over a fake obstacle caused genuine bruising and pain, as Tanusha had cause to know. For this reason, Kayo waited until she was back in the seemingly empty and silent testing arena before reaching out with her mind.

Closing her vivid green eyes, the girl let her other senses expand, feeling herself stand in the midst of a bubble of spreading awareness. The sensation was bizarre, and frightening. For just a moment, she wanted Nikorr. Then, she pushed the thought away. The last thing her cousin needed was a doorway into IR's simulation room. No. She'd do this, herself.

Stretching farther by the second, her mind batted and brushed at all the projectors, drones and climate control systems underlying this terrible nightmare. She kept her eyes tightly closed, because the clash between what she "saw", and what lay underneath that illusion, was deeply disturbing.

Partitions and separate chambers held her five brothers. She could feel them in there; was actually in one, herself, most likely.

…which meant that a panic button, to do any good, would have to be _inside_ each isolated testing chamber; hers, included. That's when she sensed it, within arm's reach, before her. Had she been totally honest… had she been like her brothers… Tanusha would have pushed the button, herself. Instead, she reached into Alan's mind, reached out with _his_ hand, and slammed the kill switch.


	11. Chapter 11

Me, again... and boy, this one's short. Just, you go where the chapter takes you, and stop where it does, y'know? Thanks again, Tikatu and Bow Echo, for general, all around awesomeness, and all your reviews. Keeps me on point.

 **11**

 _Gran Roca Ranch, in "real time", at the testing arena-_

Scott stumbled forward a few steps, blinking in utter confusion. The sudden transition from bucking, wind-battered cockpit to still, quiet lab was a cold-water shock. Fluorescent lighting and the faint background hum of complex machinery had replaced the world's violent ending, in less time than it took to draw a deep breath. Scott felt himself tense and grow flushed. Felt his breathing roughen. They'd failed; pulling out of the training simulation before achieving whatever Machiavellian d*mn goal Brains had set for them.

Expecting a reprimand, and furious because of it, Scott Tracy swung around to face the others, most of whom looked equally dazed and confused. Virgil and Gordon emerged from their chamber wet clear through, shading their eyes a bit from the sudden bright light. John and Alan looked wind-blown, leaning forward, still, against a gale that was no longer there. Alan appeared deflated, dejected; John, tense and concerned. Lifting a hand to his earpiece, the red-head seemed to listen to something it told him, then reply very quietly. Whatever he did cut part of his evident tension, for John relaxed just a bit. Kayo… was looking up at the control center, scowling the way she had when they'd first met her, all those years back; like someone who did not understand all the new rules, and refused to risk a mistake.

One of them had done it. One of his brothers, or sister, had been overwhelmed by their task and punched out, ending the sim without a clear win. So much for their great, unbeatable plan. _Right._ Scott made a certain quick signal, then strode away from the others. Far enough to be out of earshot, anyhow. Moments later, John and Virgil joined him across the big, echoing chamber.

"Needless to say…" Scott growled, keeping his voice low and mostly controlled.

"I didn't do it," Virgil protested, holding both hands up, palm outward, in a display of total innocence and denial. "I was in the middle of a rescue on the Island, with Tadpole. Grandma and them were all safe… ish. I mean, in _that_ situation…" he trailed off, shrugging broad, muscular shoulders. "Anyhow, we had things in hand, Scott. No way we'd have punched out early, either of us."

IR's field commander studied his second brother's dark eyes and handsome, blunt face. Virgil couldn't lie very effectively, because he didn't believe in it. If he didn't want to deliver bad news, he'd just keep quiet. Okay, then… Not him, and not Gordon. Scott grunted, then looked over at John, whose blue-green eyes were narrowed in speculation.

"Me, neither," he said. "I was busy re-writing part of the sim code to, um… just looking around for the actual end-game. And Alan is too much in love with his new toy to even consider ending things early. But…" the astronaut finger combed his red-golden hair with a slim hand, looking a lot like Dad. "Obviously, something went wrong pretty much right from the start, Scott. What if Brains ran into trouble somehow, and the training computer just shut _itself_ down?"

Scott frowned distractedly. Then, he mused,

"You know this set-up better than I do, Little Brother. Could that really happen?" Very much, he still wanted something to blame, and someone to yell at. Still, if John said that the simulation could break down and eject them on its own…

The tall, slender astronaut gestured; flipping one hand side to side in a 'yes-no' sort of way.

"Call it a definite maybe. I'll look into it, Scott… but I think we need to find our testing coordinator, first. If something's gone wrong, he may be in trouble."

Their oldest brother nodded reluctantly.

"Yeah. I was thinking along those lines, myself, before I went out after Goddam Langstrom Fischler."

Virgil snorted, digging an elbow into Scott's ribs.

"Tell the truth, Glorious Leader," he prodded, as they began heading back to the others. "What would you have done if you actually _got_ to the sumbitch?"

Scott opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, with a decisive snap. Finally, he admitted,

"Honestly? It's probably a good thing that I never had a chance to find out. Might have pulled a John, or something."

The vid-star handsome astronaut, who was sensitive about his sometimes volcanic temper, stalked off to join Kayo. Scott watched him go, saying,

"That guy… takes a lot of figuring out. At least he didn't die, this time. Good thing he has Kay to bounce off of. I mean… Not like _that._ Came out all wrong. Sorry."

Virgil shook his head, reaching over with a massive hand to give Scott's shoulder a friendly pat.

"Couldn't pay me enough to take your job, Brother-man. _You_ have fun herding raptors through a minefield. I'll stick with heavy lifting." Then, "C'mon, diplomat… let's go find Brains," he said, adding, "A rancher works from sun to sun, but IR's work is never done."

Over to one side, Kayo looked up at her brother, a wordless question in those big green eyes. Folding his arms across his chest, John shook his head, no. They hadn't figured her for the one who'd pulled free and punched out somehow, using Alan's button. He'd covered her tracks, both digitally and verbally. For a long moment, the girl leaned against him, resting her forehead on his upper arm, just trying to calm herself and re-center.

Alan watched the deeply-bonded pair, feeling like the kid who'd got socks and a whistle for Christmas. Then Gordon shoved him, annoying and awesome as ever.

"Bet there's a way around that whole physics thing, Al," he said cheerfully. "For your robot-plane, I mean. All that thermodynamics crap is just the evil tyranny of old men with calculators and long, white beards."

This statement made Alan feel better. Unfortunately, it also reminded Gordon that his butt-munch brother had damaged the glorious, golden beard of power, and deserved vile retribution; with both hands, in frickin' _spades._

Alan was too preoccupied with Valkyrie work-arounds to notice Gordon's suddenly narrowed hazel eyes and rigid posture. Otherwise, he'd have known to lock doors, load a shotgun with rock salt, buy canned food, and seek shelter.

One way or another, though, they all soon converged on the door that led up to Hackenbacker's control center. It was print-locked, of course, and repeated calls upstairs had elicited no response, whatsoever. Trouble.

For something to say to her, while John and Scott worked on the door's print scanner, Alan turned to his lovely sister and chirped,

"Hey, you don't think the sim could be smart enough to protect itself by just making us _think_ we were out… do you?"

Tanusha cocked her pony-tailed head, considering. The notion was foolish; typical Alan-style nonsense… wasn't it? Hard to tell, with all his emotions and juvenile lust crashing against her, like that.

But… what if the boy was right, as so often happened? What if his seeming dumb question had cut right down to the truth? _How would they know, if the system had worked out a way to fool even_ _her_ _?_


	12. Chapter 12

About two, three chapters from wrapping this up, I reckon. Thanks, as always, to Bow Echo, Whirl Girl, Tikatu, WhatHaveWeDone and Akimakel, for all their kind reviews. The encouragement means a lot to me, guys. Hugs!

 **12**

 _Gran Roca Ranch, the testing arena-_

The main blast door between the training center and Brains' control room was locked, and would not budge. Meant to shield the operator from whatever nightmare of chaos and ruin he'd conjured up, below, it was a heavy thing, with a toothed bottom edge that slammed into sockets on the coaming beneath. Looked like a portcullis, only not made of mere iron and wood. Once in place like that, powerful electromagnets held the door fast. It might as well have been part of the wall.

Scott Tracy had been working on the door's locking mechanism with his brother, John. Should have been simple enough to override the thing and pop that door like a finish-line victory streamer… only, its tiny computer wasn't accepting input, period.

His anger shifting to sudden concern, Scott glanced at John, then waved their brother Virgil on over. Between the two of them… John with his circuit-laden environment suit, Virgil with just plain rock-solid muscle… they were the strongest backs on the team.

Scott jerked his head at that stubborn titanium-alloy obstruction and said,

"Right, then. Plan B. Get it open, by any means necessary."

Big, dark-haired Virgil stepped up and rubbed his hands together, muttering,

"Be nice to have my exo-suit, right about now."

But the training computer refused to cooperate. Their testing arena remained a vast, metal-walled dome filled with chilly air and blue-white fluorescent lighting. No smells, no sounds above faint background humming, and no helpful tools (though Gordon and Alan were searching, like mad). Felt rather like sitting in a movie theatre, where the digital feed had got interrupted, and the screen had gone suddenly blank. Jarring. Dislocating.

John nodded at his older brother, then decided to try a little more outside-the-warehouse thinking. After all, the giant, shape-changing battle robot had worked. Placing a hand to his earpiece, he subvocalized,

"Eos, shut down power to the testing lab system. Cut it off at the mains, if you have to. Need a one-minute interrupt."

Risky, because sudden power loss, triggered from without, would send the house and its computers into defensive mode. If the Tracys already weren't being recognized, such an action could be several orders of magnitude beyond merely 'bad'. _Exponential-_ plus un-good, maybe. Still, they had to shut off that magnet-lock, and John Tracy was essentially a pilot and space-rescue guy. He tended to leave worry for the bean-counters in the family (Alan, Brains and Eos).

He felt a dubious sort of shoulder-squeeze from his suit. Then, speaking through his earpiece in a torrent of highjacked audio clips, Eos said,

"John, I am able to do as you require, but the house computer has been reconfigured. It now regards me as a hostile virus. Also, there are backup power feeds and failsafes in place. The 'blackout' will end, rather soon. I estimate resumption in 45.2761 seconds. Shall I proceed, regardless?"

"Hunh…" John grunted. Then, "Yeah, what the h*ll. Go for it. Can't do anything stuck down here, waiting for Brains to put down his comic book and invite us back in. On my signal, Pretty Girl."

"Acknowledged. Be cautious, John. I have already intercepted and rewritten three-hundred, twenty-five thousand commands to electrify and flash heat the blast-door."

Nice. Had Eos been present in Ridley's form, as she had been in sim, John would have squeezed her hand or something, by way of thanks. Instead, he told her,

"I owe you dinner, Sweetie," and moved in to stand beside Virgil, facing the stubborn blast door. "Have to do it in sim, though, once we get this mess straightened out, and rescue Brains."

This time, he got a very tight suit-hug. But, John was too distracted to pay much attention. No one else had heard the conversation; just assumed he was dictating code, or something.

Virgil waited for John to get into position beside him, before sizing up the door and its possible stress points.

"Trick's gonna be getting it up high enough to grab that bottom edge, and lift," he commented, scowling at the door's nearly seamless interface with the floor. His red-haired brother shrugged.

"I can get the magnet shut off," he said. "Then, we get to find out if these gloves Brains designed are as good as he claims. Once it's up enough to get a hand underneath…"

"Whoever can do it, gets down there and starts powerlifting," Virgil finished for him. "Gotta be quick, though, or lose a few fingers."

He didn't notice their lovely, dark-haired sister, edging over with a tense and conflicted look on her face. Generally, Kayo avoided direct contact with Virgil; safer, that way. He still made her heart pound and her breath come fast; made her go all kinds of flutterguts, just looking at him.

They needed her help, though, given John's tendency to launch with one wing and half a plan. She watched as Virgil and John crouched down, put their hands flat on the door, and triggered their gloves' bonding mechanism. Then, John said,

 _"Now."_

All at once, the power cut off, leaving the Tracys in red-lit darkness. Both young men started to heave upward. Gordon stood by with whatever junk oddments he'd been able to scrounge from the nearly bare chamber; thinking to shove one into the gap, if someone _was_ about to lose their fingers. Kayo scarcely noticed, because she had a plan of her own.

No longer locked, the door was now merely heavy; almost more than Virgil and John could manage, without a firm grip on it. Still, with the gecko gloves' bond and their own power, they began to muscle it upward, inch by straining inch.

Kayo stretched her mind a bit, very cautiously. Her brothers were conscious, not much distracted, and very close. If she made a mistake, they might feel her touching them, and the door. Had to stay on the surface of things, light as a breeze. No plunging inside, because a careless blunder now could stop a heart, or knot up some critical nerve path. All she need do was serve as another brace; a wedge. Easy enough in theory, but in practice, well…

When the door's toothed bottom edge slipped partway free of its coaming, revealing the barest of gaps, Gordon dove down to shove in a panel he'd wrenched from the walls. Kayo got in there, too, using her mind, trying to create a lever of force. She'd never done anything like it, before; wasn't sure that she _could,_ even.

Now came the really dangerous bit. One of them was going to have to shift his grip and seize the door's bottom edge, _fast_. And the need for speed was what decided them.

John grunted, "Me."

Virgil, grim-faced and straining, managed a short nod.

"Quick," he gasped, as the others stood ready.

The suit wasn't just strong. Much of its circuitry was sensory in nature, giving it limited awareness of circumstance, in case John lost consciousness in space. It could act with blinding, reflexive speed, when required.

When John dropped and began to reach down, the suit moved faster than human bone, muscle and nerve could manage. Tore something in his right shoulder, but didn't matter. He got there before the door ripped loose of Virgil's grip, seized it from below, and hauled like h*ll. His turn to hold, then, as Virgil plunged to a squat, got his hands in there, and began to straighten his powerful legs. Together, grunting and cussing, they fought the d*mn thing up to waist height. Gordon rolled through, tumbling in past John's wide-braced legs. Lost a little skin, but made it. Taking hold from the other side, the muscular aquanaut added his power to theirs, allowing Alan and Kayo to shoot through, next.

Scott disliked the indignity of rolling or squirming. He waited until his brothers had wrestled the door up to shoulder level, then ducked between them and took his place beside Gordon.

"Virgil!" he called. "You swing through, then John. On three… one, two, _three!"_

The big pilot, looking at John, nodded once more, cords standing out in his neck. Then, he twisted in mid-threshold while still maintaining a partial grip on the blast door. With an arm like a wrung-out noodle, he reached back, seized John, and yanked him on through. Bashed John's head a bit in the process, but hey… the astronaut wasn't crushed, or anything, so win-win, anyway you looked at it.

The heavy door crashed back down to its coaming, just as power returned and alarms began blaring. Kayo, too, released her mental grip, ending a savage headache and restoring her vision. Gordon's collection of junk was smashed flat and fired across the room like shrapnel. Alan got hit, but not _too_ badly.

Scott went from sibling to sibling, hauling some to their feet, shoving others into a stumbling run. The small anteroom in which they found themselves flared with alarm lights and rang with shrill noise. They'd triggered Mechanic-level countermeasures, and had no time to rest or recover.

 _"Control room!"_ Scott shouted over that bone-jarring din. _"_ _Now_ _! Move it!"_

Once again, they paired up according to plan; Scott and Virgil, John and Kayo, Alan with Gordon (who was doing his best to stop the bleeding, while still on the run). The short room ended in a locked double door, but this one wasn't nearly as tough, and Scott was just about out of patience. At his curt gesture, Virgil took hold at the seam and slammed the two doors apart, lock or no lock.

Then came a long, narrow flight of metal stairs, alternately dark and bathed in lurid, five-alarm red. Three switch backs and landings later, they'd reached the control center.

Once more, Scott gestured, as the stairwell began to fill up with white, stinging knock-out gas. The noise was indescribable, head-splitting; the gas fumes like an icepick to the sinuses. Something else, a pulsed data-interrupt signal meant for the Mechanic's cyborg interface, was wreaking havoc with Eos.

Stricken, Virgil reeled away from that final door. Coughing and wheezing, he gasped,

"Scott… I think it's been _welded."_


	13. Chapter 13

Hi there, guys! Thanks, Bow Echo, Helensg and Whirl Girl; you raise a lot of good points about Kayo and Scott. Almost done with this little rabbit-hole, and then back to the main feature, where characters can be explored in more depth.

 **13**

 _Wyoming, at IR's haywire testing facility-_

On the bright side, the house defenses were only designed to capture and incapacitate. On the other, bandaged and broken hand, they weren't too particular how they got the job done.

Trapped on a high stair-landing, with knock-out gas filling the air, and a horde of security mechs clambering up the stairway and walls behind them, the Tracys needed _out_ , in a hurry. Adding to their troubles, the control room doors had been welded shut, somehow.

Well, if you couldn't attack the door, itself, you could tear up the wall it was set in. John on one side, and Virgil on the other, ripped right into the metal panels that formed the portal's threshold, while nightmare-red lights and screeching alarms beat at their senses and sanity. In their wake, Gordon yanked out big handfuls of wiring, just trying to shut off that noise, and stop the grim prospect of electrocution.

A few seconds' work weakened the door's framing enough that a couple of good, solid kicks brought it down with a booming crash. If Brains was on the other side, Virgil thought, he was now a very flat engineer. No time to turn and make the funny, though, or even flash a quick thumbs-up, because Scott was barking and shoving, again. And, yeah… some of those security mechs were armed with tasers and neural-disruptor nets. Having been tased (twice) before in the line of duty, Virgil had zero desire to go through _that,_ again.

John wasn't his testing buddy… Scott was… but the spaceman was nearest, so Virgil seized hold and just about threw him into the open control room, followed by Gordon. Somehow got tangled up with Kayo, for just an instant… smiled at his beautiful sister and gave her a quick, rough hug, then tossed her on past, as well. Scott made his own way in, supporting Alan. The kid had lost blood, and looked like something you'd find squirming around at the base of a very dark cave.

Pounding in after his family, Virgil saw John bending low to pick someone up. Straightening, the astronaut heaved the still figure over one shoulder. Brains, looked like; and out like a screen after Grandma's curfew. Max was there, too. While the others raced out of the room, and Gordon engaged in more delay-tactic sabotage (kid had a definite nihilist streak), Virgil yanked Max's personality cartridge out of his scorch-marked body. Then, he ran like h*ll, two minutes ahead of the posse, if that.

The rest… well, if you bought him a drink, and had time to talk, Virgil would tell you all about it, at length. Scott would just glare, John go off into napkin and back-of-the-envelope diagrams featuring stickmen in peril, while Gordon and Alan would lie through their teeth. Did they get the crap beat out of them by their own defenses, just trying to get out of the Goddam _house_? Yeah. Yeah, they did.

Out in the hallway, Scott tripped an ankle-height laser beam, triggering an avalanche of huge, heavy rollers, like redwood logs rumbling off the back of a truck. Virgil was almost swept under. Did bounce off one or two, before getting on top like a logroller, swinging one endwise, and creating a giant pileup. His shoulder laser was out of power by then, or the big guy would just have sawn them to chips.

Scott shouted,

"What the h*ll?! Whose idea was _this?_ Who _designed_ this crap?!"

Virgil gave his bruised older brother a hand up. He had a perverse desire to laugh, but cracked ribs and a wrenched back made breathing sort of difficult, so he settled for grinning, instead.

"Well, Leader-man, you _did_ tell Brains you wanted the tightest defenses possible."

Scott wasn't amused. He leveled a forefinger at Virgil, snapping,

"That's it. You're fired, just as soon as we're out of this mess." Then, "Oh, sh*t. Run, Virge!"

For the tasing security mechs were on them, again; some of them skittering over their heads on the ceiling, partly visible in that strobe-like, ruby glare. Virgil didn't wait. Anyone pausing long enough to say, "huh?" would have been talking to himself. _Did_ collect Alan on the way, though, releasing Gordon to put some distance between himself and those clattering, beeping hunters.

Next came pale, swirling foam that jetted from nozzles in the ceiling and walls. Slippery, at first, it quickly began to harden. Well, Virgil hadn't been a college fullback for nothing; he could hit like a man twice his size, busting through anyone's statue-like coating of foam cement. Gordon joined him in pinball sibling-tackles, hitting like a rugby center in pursuit of glory.

John reached across, ripped a mech off the wall and used it to smash its oncoming brothers to metal and plastic splinters. Brains got tossed over to Kayo at this point, while Scott broke them through to the main lab, which appeared to be imploding like a manic trash compactor; its furnishings swallowed up by sheltering pits.

"What?! _Why?!"_ Scott blurted, hastily gauging the three-hundred feet (and shrinking) they'd have to cross to reach the next passage, and hanger deck.

What followed was pure, balletic chaos, as a blizzard of steel slugs were fired from all four walls like blunt, bone-snapping javelins; a dance of run, dodge, duck and catch with Brains and Alan, amid rumbling walls and hissing projectiles. Scott was last out, this time, literally kicking Gordon in the arse to get him through that fast-shrinking portal. Virgil reached in to help Scott wriggle out, just before the walls grew cushioning pads and clapped together like a couple of fly-catching hands. Scott rolled, looked around himself. Somehow, they'd all reached the hangar. Next step, outdoors.

"On… further consideration," Scott panted, getting up with a definite limp. "You're… hired again, Virgil."

"Like h*ll!" the pilot objected. "I'm holding out for a raise and better vacation time!"

"What about me?" John called back, from halfway across the ringing hangar. "Can I be fired? _Please?"_

Chimed in Gordon, "Me, too!"

"Shut up and get back to work," Scott growled at them, as crackling flares began lashing from the two force-shielded Birds like floor-sweeping lightning. "No one's fired, until I say so."

It was just about then that karma struck Alan, in the form of a scalp-searing force bolt. He wound up with a crispy-rimmed gash creasing his golden blond hair, which never _did_ grow quite right, again.

Convinced that intruders had entered the hangar to capture them, Thunderbirds 1 and 2 defended themselves with mighty electrical discharges. Not quite enough to kill a fully-grown man, but more than sufficient to light up his cosmos.

"Anyone… ever _does_ break… in here," Virgil gasped, after just barely dodging a force bolt, "we're… gonna get _sued."_

"Couple of Girl Scouts… on the front porch… with thin mints, even," said Gordon, breaking for daylight. "House 'd bale them like hay!"

Not that things were much better, on the outside. They'd have to cross the perimeter to escape this homicidal fever-dream. But sneak attacks were harder, at least, and dodging, much easier.

Maybe they should have split up, once out in the open. As Uncle Lee would have put it: _one grenade would get you, all!_ But they were a family, and together was all that they knew.

"Possibly," said John at one point, ducking behind a big, laser-scarred boulder (which he ended up hurling at a hovering sec-drone). "We should… _uhn_ … revisit the… question of weapons?"

"Everyone's a critic," Scott grumbled. He hadn't had time to wonder _why_ their system was acting this way, starting with that first psychotic skills test. Later, though… questions would be asked, and answers demanded. For now, all he could do was run, dodge, and try not to get hung out to dry by their own defense system.

It was past midnight when seven dirty, injured and worn-out young people gathered in the shelter of a rock overhang, just outside the boundary line between Gran Roca Ranch, and public grazing land. Brains had come around, by this point, but he was too groggy to yell at. Yet.

The dogs joined them, as well; whimpering and tail-tucked from all that noise and confusion. Defenses hadn't attacked _them_ , at least. Made John feel better about the horses, but still tense as a bowstring. Felt like a coward for not doubling back to be sure… but what if he'd just led that sh*t storm right up to their stable, and got them all killed?

Kayo and Gordon tended the wounded as best they could without med-kits, while Virgil got a small fire going. Meanwhile, John set about breaking into their locked-up computer system, using all of their wrist comms, Max's cartridge, and a flickering virtual keypad.

A cold breeze had set up, making the flames jump and dance. In the circle of red-golden firelight, Scott said, with an edge to his voice,

"Tell you one thing… we need to get in there and straighten up before Grandma and Penny arrive, because d*mned if I'm going to let them find us, out _here!"_ He didn't like to seem helpless, was all.

"One thing at a time, Scott," the astronaut replied, not lifting his eyes from the interface he'd created. "Let me reset the d*mn system, first. By the way, happy birthday."

Didn't listen for Scott's response, because he was busy. He'd got a few kill-codes from Brains, and was trying them all, in rapid succession. So far, no joy. Computer system was getting smarter; having learnt his tricks and his coding style from all of that anti-Brains plotting he'd done. It didn't know Alan's, though.

Lifting his head, John rebooted his interface, got the boy's attention and said,

"Al, over here, a minute. Need your help."

The boy's blue eyes widened in "who, _me?"_ shock. So far, he hadn't felt really useful, except as ersatz weight-training and target practice. Scooting over from where he'd been petting This'un and That'un, the boy asked,

"What's up, John? What d'you need me to do?"

Reaching up to rub at knotted muscles in his own neck and sore shoulder, John replied,

"Easy. I need you to not be _me._ Key into the house system like it's your bedroom computer, Al, and turn off the alarms. Tell it… tell it the dogs tripped an eye-beam, and some blackbirds got loose in the hangar, again. False alarm."

Alan grinned at his older brother, sunny and open despite his carbonized hair and gashed arm.

"You got it, Bro! One zoological "oopsie" coming right up!"

And, believe it or not, the trick worked.


	14. Chapter 14

Yay! Success! Thanks, Bow Echo, for all your advice and encouragement. Third time was the charm. =) And hugs to Whirl Girl and Tikatu, as well. I appreciate your comments and feedback, more than I can adequately express. Edited more!

 **14**

 _At the western border of Gran Roca Ranch, inside a firelit rock shelter-_

"What the h*ll happened, back there?!" Scott demanded, fighting to keep his voice even and calm. The man he faced, Hiram Hackenbacker, was dazed and injured; having been shocked insensible by forces unknown. His thought processes seemed slower, more muddled, and there were red burn-streaks (Kayo called them "Lichtenberg figures") on his back and waist. He'd been unconscious when they found him, and wasn't doing much better, now.

"T- To what are you r- referring?" he asked, clutching Max's personality cartridge. Almost, the engineer looked ready to cry. Just smoke from the glowing firepit, probably.

Scott took a deep breath, counted backward from ten, thought about Penny, and did all of the other things that (usually) helped him stay calm. Then, he said,

"Brains, we went into training, yesterday, determined to win at a normal, _fair_ test. Something went wrong, in fairly short order. According to John and Eos, it wasn't you running that Godawful sim. I want to know _why."_

He stood leaning aggressively over the slender engineer, who sat huddled and blinking on a small, reddish boulder. Hugging Max like a teddy bear, Brains shook his bruised head.

"I d- do not know how to, ah… to answer th- this accusation, Scott. I c- cannot seem to r- recall anything beyond greeting you all at th- the testing center."

Then, looking around at various injured and jacked-up Tracys, plus the two dogs, he said,

"B- but I do not see Braman. What of h- him? Did no one think to save _him,_ as w- well as Max and myself?"

Scott straightened; his mouth a thin, hard line.

"Braman?" he demanded, suspiciously.

The dark-haired engineer nodded anxiously, saying,

"My n- newest assistant. M- Max's brother. Did you not find him w- with us?"

Scott thought back, trying to picture their mad, pounding rush through the testing control center. He hadn't been first in, or anything, but… No, couldn't recall seeing a second robot. Still… it jibed with something that John had mentioned, quickly, in passing. The pilot turned around and scanned their temporary shelter.

Alan was sitting near the small fire with This'un and That'un; the sheen of anesthetic healing ointment on his bald scalp. Virgil was perched on another boulder, having his ribs strapped up by a very tense-seeming Kayo, who was working by firelight, with donated, torn-up tee shirts. John was off to one side, still fiddling with that patched together wrist comm array, while Gordon crouched somewhere outside the circle of light, keeping watch.

Grunting, "Wait here," Scott went over to John, who glanced up at his brother's rapid, all-business approach.

"Got a minute?" the pilot asked, in one of those not-really-a-question tones, of his.

John nodded, rising from his seat on the uneven shelter floor without having to think through the process of moving in a gravity well. Having been Earthbound for some time now, he was getting used to being pinned down, again. Didn't much like it, though.

Scott jerked his head at the jumbled and sandy back of their shelter, where a band of ancient pictographs seemed to dance in the firelight. Then, he began walking off. John followed him, casting a wistful glance back at his in-process work. Once they were out of earshot of the others, Scott started in; voice low, blue eyes hard.

"Okay, Little Brother… you said that something other than Brains was running our testing scenario. Are you sure of that? Are we talking about outside interference, or an inside job? Could the Mechanic have hacked our system, again? And what do you know about Braman? Any sign of another robot assistant?"

John's blue-green eyes narrowed a bit, as he thought over Scott's many questions. Then, he said,

"Yes, I did. Pretty d*mn sure, considering I had to sneak past it to shut down that hole. Could've been either, but I haven't picked up any signs of outside intrusion. It's possible. He learns fast; has some kind of crazy organic coding style that's more like adapted thought than a second language. And, nothing. Never heard of Braman, didn't see any stray robots. Wait… did Brains try out a new AI on us? Is that what you meant by 'inside job'?"

His gaze unfocused for a second or three; probably talking to Eos. Then, John was back, and not happy with whatever he'd learnt.

"There's, um… a 'high probability' that a computer intelligence created by Brains could hijack the system, if properly motivated. No sign of it, now, though."

"Sh*t," Scott muttered, kicking at a pile of smooth granite pebbles. "And now it's out there, doing God knows what, with all of our codes and equipment specs. Great. Just effing _wonderful."_ Glancing back at their engineer, who'd slumped over and appeared to be dozing, again, Scott snapped, "Goddam geniuses are more trouble than they're worth, half the time… present company excepted, of course."

But if John was offended, he didn't show it. Instead, the tall, red-haired astronaut said,

"Plenty of time for a post-mortem later, Scott. Right now, I've reconfigured the house and lab systems, and summoned a couple of cargo flitters. Thought about whistling up Thunderbird 2, but…"

Scott shook his head, reddening slightly.

"No need for an unscheduled launch, John. Let's, uh… keep this on the down-low, until everything's sorted out, back home." By which he meant: _I don't want Grandma and Penny to find out that we had to evacuate._

John disliked 'body language', but he had long experience at reading his older brother, who was nothing, if not consistently stressed. He smiled a little, saying,

"No problem. The flitters aren't all that fast, so we've got about twenty minutes to wrap things up here, and head back." Another brief, unfocused moment followed. Then, John added, "…and Eos will nose around for any sign of this 'Braman'. Unless his intelligence can transfer from one housing to another, he can't have gone far. We've already unlocked Brains' planning notes. Maybe keep that one quiet, though."

"Yeah. Good idea," Scott agreed, clapping a hand to his brother's left shoulder. "Let me know what Eos turns up, the moment you hear something… and let's get this show on the road. I _hate_ camping."

As they headed back to the fire, John shot his brother a swift, sidelong glance.

"You made Eagle Scout. How could you not like camping?"

Scott shrugged.

"It was just another goal, John. Made Dad proud, and met expectation. Personal feelings don't matter, when something's that important. You do what you have to. But, um… if I never see another tent, campfire or weenie-roast again, it'll be too soon for me. Sue me. I _like_ civilization."

John shook his head, still turning the concept over in his mind. Didn't like learning new things about old people. Friends and relations were supposed to be stable. Secure. _Especially_ brothers. Next, Gordon would say that he'd developed an allergic reaction to seawater, and Kayo would come out for peace, or something. Well, at least Eos was behaving according to specs. That was a plus.

The cargo flitters arrived a short time later, hovering a few feet over the rocky terrain, on powerful anti-grav motors. Remotely summoned, they'd used GPS and wrist comm signals to find their way over, turning up in a low, rumbling dust cloud.

Brains and Alan were in the worst shape, so they got a cargo flat to themselves; stretching out in back while Gordon sat up in the open cab, with the two dogs. Kayo, John and Virgil claimed a seat in the next flitter, which was about fifteen feet long, and unenclosed; like an un-wheeled, convertible flatbed truck. Scott flew that one, a little faster than maybe was safe; but he _really_ wanted to beat Grandma home, and not have to explain. Yet. Until he had answers in hand, and a strategy in place.

Tanusha, sitting between two of her favourite brothers, with both knees drawn up to her slim chest, was fighting to control her own surging emotions. She'd touched him. A _lot._ Strapping up Virgil's cracked ribs and treating his cuts had meant that he'd been in her hands for most of an hour. And all of that time, she'd forced herself to stay calm and professional. A little stern, even. On the inside, though, deep down, the girl was squealing and turning handsprings. Hadn't conversed with him much, because what did one say to the handsome, muscular brother who could not seem to stay out of trouble? Even weary and hurt, he was fiercely attractive.

So, Kayo went to the opposite extreme and ignored Virgil all that ride home; addressing her very few comments to John, instead. Mostly, though, she focused on starlit darkness, icy wind, and the flitter's slight, bouncing vibration. Other than wind gusts and occasional coyote-music, they were the loudest things moving, that night. The warm solid bulwark of two brothers and the humming drone of their flitter made her sleepy. Kayo fought it off, though, needing to stay alert, for security reasons. Around moonrise, when that first glowing sliver crested the mountains, they'd made it back home.

At that point, Scott gave everyone their marching orders. Virgil was to handle obvious structural damage, John to assess and repair any rifts in their computer systems (and send a 'false alarm' signal to Grandma, Penny and Parker). Meanwhile, Gordon and Kayo were ordered to care for the injured. As for Scott, he intended to oversee operations, and to fix one warped, leaky window in Grandma's sitting room. After all, he'd promised.

Of course, he knew that 'mission creep' would cause John to check on the horses, first; Gordon to abandon medical detail to help out with repairs, and Alan to put on a baseball cap and climb out of bed. H*ll, he expected it, his brothers being the fractious, independent lot that they were. That's why someone had to be there to crack the whip and keep them on point. Yeah... sometimes, he _really_ missed dad.

Close to dawn, Scott finally allowed his siblings to rest. _Nobody_ made it upstairs to bed, though. Instead, they sacked out in the sitting room, curled up in an armchair, on the bright, Navaho rug, or their battered old sofa. Ought to have posted a watch, but Scott figured that's what the dogs were for. His last conscious thought was, _"H*ll of a way to start my birthday…"_

The sun was already up and shining through that newly repaired window, when Scott heard the distant "We're home" beeping of Grandma's blue truck. Same rhythm as the secret knock, it meant: _I'm back with supplies, and all's well._

Scott jolted awake, shoved the nearest brother (Virgil) and growled,

"Everybody up. They're here."

Leaving his siblings to sort themselves out and visit the head, Scott stepped onto the front porch; banging through their squeaky screen door in a manner that would have drawn a sharp fuss from Grandma, had she seen him do it. It was cold, outside, and breezy. Clean-smelling. Better yet, not an ash-flake in sight. Forty-five, maybe fifty degrees, at the most, Scott figured. Peering into the molten-gold distance, he first spotted a long plume of floating dust. Closer to, he watched gravel scatter and ping; heard the tired old engine cough like a five-pack smoker doing laps. The dogs took off running to meet Grandma's truck, barking and bounding like twin brindle lighting bolts. Smiling, he shaded his eyes with one hand, and watched her roar in.

Scott lifted a hand in greeting, squashing the urge to grin and wave. He wasn't a kid, anymore. Soon enough, he'd have left his twenties behind, entirely. On the brighter side, there wasn't much sign of the recent chaos, beyond a few shattered rocks, and Alan's burnt hair. A good thing, too, as Scott had no desire to advertise what had happened. Naturally, there'd be an emergency meeting later, but not with Grandma or Penny present.

And speaking of Penelope… Scott rubbed at the back of his head, wishing he'd had time to change out of his grubby jeans, sock-feet and sweatshirt. Well, he could always shower and dress for his birthday dinner.

Hands in his pockets, Scott descended four rickety-seeming wood stairs and crossed over to meet the blue truck, which swept to a halt in a spray of crunching gravel and tail-wagging deer hounds.

"Hey, Grandma… Hey, Pen," he began. Was about to greet Parker, as well, when Grandma Tracy's birthday surprise stepped out of the truck, bent and cramped from their trip.

 _"Dad…?"_

This time, Scott _did_ break into a grin; loping over to shake hands with the older man, and greet both the ladies. Vigorously. Penny, too, had emerged from the truck, looking compressed but impeccable. Parker had ridden back in the truck bed, cap pulled down low, arms folded across his chest; only springing to life to help Lady Penelope out of the crowded cab. Needless to say, it was quite a reunion.

"Happy Birthday, Son," said Jeff Tracy, smiling broadly as he clasped Scott's wide shoulder.

"Thank you, Sir," the pilot replied, all at once understanding why Grandma's shopping trip with Penny had taken so long. "Glad you could make it out."

Once released, he bent down to embrace the old woman and murmured,

"Thanks, Grandma. This means a lot."

Sally Tracy smiled up at her tall, blue-eyed grandson.

"Only get one birthday a year," she excused herself, as though ashamed of all that sentimentality. "Wanted t' do it up brown."

The others were straggling up, by this time; all pretty much dusting or drying off, and hiding assorted wounds. Al wore an old ball cap, rakishly backward. John had stripped off his sling. Virgil hid his tightly strapped ribs, and tried to move normally. Dad's backslap made his eyes water, but he kept the smile on his face, even when Grandma asked,

"Everything okay over here, Boys? Tanusha? We got an alarm call from the house, last night, and then the all clear. Some kinda intruder alert?"

Scott cleared his throat and then shook his head, no. He'd been off to one side, embracing Penny so close they were just about fused. Now he said,

"False alarm, Grandma. One of the dogs got into the house and tripped an eyebeam, and, uh… some… some…"

"Blackbirds," John supplied helpfully, radiating total innocence.

"Right, blackbirds. From the stock pond. They got loose in the hangar and set off a security breach. Other than that, no excitement."

Added Virgil, grinning slyly,

"Scariest thing we had to deal with was Scott's cooking. Honest."

He pretended not to notice his brother's glare, and the extra patrol time it threatened. After all, dad was home. And so, for the moment, what else mattered?


	15. Chapter 15

Hi, again! Site's acting funny, so I don't know if this will even show up, but I decided to post another quick bit. Kind of _had_ to, really. Thank you for reading and reviewing! =)

 **15**

 _Wyoming Territory, back at the ranch-_

If Dad and Grandma had their suspicions, they kept them quiet because, by Sally Tracy's immutable law, family celebrations could not be disturbed by shop-talk… and the whole _day_ was a family celebration.

Kayo, Scott and Gordon (in the best shape) helped Parker to unload the truck, dodging excited dogs as they brought in the essentials of outpost human and animal life. Most of their burden was what you'd expect; food packed in dry ice, aspirin, first aid gear, vitamins, sanitary goods, and the like. Some was less obvious, like oil pastels for Virgil, and ear drops for Gordon (who _would_ keep swimming in the stock pond). And, always, books from the distant town library. Grandma disliked screen-time on general principle, feeling that the boys and Kayo could improve their minds, if they needed a break from physical training. Thus, at every trip out, she brought home the weightiest tomes that Four Points could offer.

The horses had been released to their paddock. Spotting all this activity, they whinnied and stamped, crowding up to the fence for treats. Alan helped John out with that one, as Apollo and the pinto gelding, Billy, would otherwise nip at the mares and shove them aside. Besides, he liked Summer, who was a dainty, chocolate-and-white appaloosa. Couldn't ride worth beans, but enjoyed horses… so long as he had a stout fence between himself and the big, pushy animals.

As for Jeff, he stood in the midst of the busy yard for a minute, taking it all in. The glowing morning, its cool breezes scented with livestock and pine, the tall, jagged mountains rising up in the distance, while blackbirds and larks stitched up a gem-blue sky. Lucy's home, where he'd brought his family, back when Kansas turned blighted and dark.

Slipping his rucksack's carrying strap off of one broad shoulder, Jeff let the canvas bag thump to the dusty ground. He was in uniform, still, having got right off that GDF transport and into Ma's truck, but already, he felt more at ease. As Scott hurried past with a big cardboard box of groceries in his arms and a poetry book pinned between chest and chin, Jeff picked up his bag once more and followed his son into the house. There weren't words for all this; for what he was feeling. Instead, Jeff started to whistle, a thing he did when ambushed with sudden happiness.

Everything was music; birds, creaky porch steps, squealing screen door, laughing voices, barking dogs and loud horses. Inside, Kayo darted up to kiss his unshaven cheek again, as she took the bag from his grasp.

"I'll put it in your room, Dad," she told him, snuggling briefly closer to the most vital man in her life. "You sit down and relax."

Jeff gave her a quick, sidearm hug, saying,

"Actually, Princess, all I _do_ these days is sit… plus a long flight, and the suspension in your grandmother's truck is shot to _hel_ … to crap. Believe me, I'd rather stand."

Tanusha smiled at his near slip-up, then gave his rough, scratchy cheek another warm kiss.

"Guess a horseback ride's out of the question?" she teased, dancing just out of range of a swift, bear-like cuff.

"Maybe tomorrow, Princess," he laughed. "Let me walk around awhile, first. I'll endanger my a… _butt_ once I can feel it, again."

Kayo grinned at her father, then heaved his green rucksack over her shoulder like John with a feed sack, and bounded upstairs; truly joyful.

Grandma Tracy had been standing in their small kitchen, snapping commands and directing traffic. Then Alan trotted past her with the last grocery box. He was still wearing the ball cap, which Grandma snatched from his head, chiding,

"No hats in the house! I swear! Think you was born in a barn and raised by wolves, 'stead of… Boy, _what happened t' y'r head?!"_

Being Grandma, she jumped to her own conclusions, and rounded on poor, innocent Gordon, who'd just strolled in with the mail. Seizing his right ear with eye-watering force, she snapped,

"Gordon David Tracy! _Did you burn up y'r brother's hair?!"_

"OW! No, Grandma!" he protested wildly. "Ask Alan! Ask _anybody!_ I didn't do it!"

She shook his sandy-blond head by that one trapped ear, snarling,

"Listen up, Boy! You make me take off this belt, I will light you up! Now, _what happened?!_

By this time, everyone had shot back over to the kitchen, including This'un and That'un (who took advantage of all the crowding and chaos to pinch some frozen steaks off the counter top). Scott had come in looking rumpled and mussed, one muscular arm tight around Penny. Her Ladyship, who had never understood Grandma Tracy's disciplinary methods, was quite wide-eyed, murmuring,

"Surely, there's been some sort of perfectly comprehensible, regrettable mistake. Faults on both sides, no doubt. Now, why don't we all retire to the parlor, have a spot of tea, and discuss the situation in a civilized manner. _Do_ release the dear boy, Mrs. Tracy. He is clearly distressed and contrite."

Gordon, meanwhile, would have given anything in the world to erase the last five minutes of his existence. Not only was he being man-handled by Grandma, and laughed at by nearly everyone else… it had all happened in front of Lady Penelope, who'd called him a _boy._ Then John, who was fast on his feet when it came to distracting their grandmother, said,

"Training accident, Grandma. Al was a little slow, dodging a force beam in one of Brains' new scenarios. Might need to tone that one down, some."

"Hunh!" the old lady grunted, releasing her grandson's red, throbbing ear. "John Matthew, if y'r stretchin' God's honest truth t' save y'r guilty brother…"

"No, Ma'am," the astronaut replied, shaking his head. "Promise."

Her fierce blue eyes next sought out Alan, who stood there, bald, red and oozing; shoulders hunched, and hands jammed in his pockets. Under her piercing stare, he admitted,

"It was an accident, Grandma. For real. I, um… shoulda been paying more attention. Gordon didn't try to get even… yet. Anything else happens, though, it was probably him."

Which got Gordon smacked, for what he hadn't done yet, but was most likely thinking about.

 _"Ow!"_ he yelped. "Grandma!"

Eager to restore peace and order, Penny shooed them all out of the kitchen and back to the 'parlor'. There weren't enough seats for that big, sprawling family, but Jeff preferred to stand, and the rest doubled up, or took a cushion and sat on the floor.

Being Americans, they had no decent tea. She had to make do with a bagged and stewed-tasting, microwaved approximation. Still, needs must, as her mother would say. Parker ferried cups, saucers and little sandwiches out to the still amused (or scowling) Tracys, and slowly the room grew calm.

Penelope exceled at rapid, civilizing tea parties; could produce perfect cucumber sandwiches and lemon scones out of seemingly nothing. In short order, Grandma was mollified, Alan put his cap back in place, and everyone sat around taking tea; their big hands and expansive gestures grown all at once very awkward and gentle. The willow-patterned china was Mom's, you see, and therefore, priceless. Not one piece had ever been chipped, lost or broken. Not one.

Scott watched his woman smoothing things over with genteel chatter and delicate food. In her hands, as she glowed in the late-morning sun like a goddess, Mom's tea things looked _right._

Well… h*ll. It was his birthday, after all, and no time like the present. Setting his fragile, blue-and-white cup down on their splintery coffee table, Scott cleared his throat nervously. Then, he stood up, wiped shaking palms on his jeans and said,

"Penny… I'm not going to say this the right way. I mess things up a lot, unless they're orders… but I love you, and that's not ever going to change. I want you to stay in my life forever. I want… want you to be my wife. If you'll have me, that is."

A falling mote would have sounded like crashing timber. Even the dogs, on the porch outside, had stopped gnawing their hard-frozen bones. Penelope blinked a few times. Then, blushing, she smiled.

"I find your proposal entirely acceptable, Scott Tracy," she told him, stepping forward to be swept into his tight, loving hug and deep kiss. Around them most of the family erupted, leaving only one person huddled and quiet... which nobody noticed, at all.

More would happen, of course. Troubles would arise, and danger threaten. But, looking back on that moment from many years later, Penelope never regretted her choice.


	16. Chapter 16

Just me, again, with the last little bit. Thanks, Echo and Elsa Jay! =)

 **16**

 _Wyoming Territory, deep in the former United States-_

Later on, just before Scott Tracy's birthday dinner, his brother, John, slipped away to the underground lab complex. Brains was still sort of punchy, so no one was present to stop him. What the astronaut intended to do wouldn't take long… not in _this_ place, but it was very important. He'd said he would do it, and meant what he'd said to her.

That was why John snuck back down to the training centre, that afternoon, and triggered a fresh simulation. Bit risky, if their new friend 'Braman' was still about, but John wasn't much worried. He had no adventures in mind; only dinner.

Not sure how to dress, he coded the only fancy gear he could think of in a hurry; the formal white tuxedo he always wore to Penelope's special "gatherings". Hated those things, and by extension, the tux, though it did seem appropriate for important occasions; with or without the d*mn Hood. All that he had to do was speak a command, then step into the testing arena (which still showed signs of heavy, Tracy-type wear).

She was there, already, looking not much like O'Bannon, this time. Was taller, for one thing, with shorter, more purplish hair. Also, her eyes were a different shade; more the color of screen-glow, in an otherwise darkened room. For clothes, she wore a simple, silvery dress; tight in some regions, swirling in others. There were shoes, too. Sandals, or something like that. John studied the changes for a minute, then decided he liked them, and smiled.

"Hey, Sweetie," he greeted Eos, stepping forward to pull her into a snug, one-armed embrace. "The new look is cute. I like it, a lot."

They stood in a softly-lit anteroom, of sorts, because he hadn't decided where they should have dinner. His own tastes were simple, running to pizza and cheeseburgers… maybe a steak, if he wanted to celebrate. But this was _her_ evening, by way of 'thank you', so John kissed the top of her head and asked,

"Where do you want to go?"

Eos considered their options, of which there were approximately ten to the seventh power possibles. More, if one factored in 'food trucks' and 'celebrity chefs'. Choosing among them was almost impossibly difficult for one without previous experience, however. Accepting this, she admitted,

"I have never eaten before, other than a bite of rehydrated provisions, during the recent training simulation. I have no preferences, John, and can make no well-informed choice. What is customary, on such occasions?"

This, of course, could have been researched. But, again, the choices seemed nearly infinite; requiring aleph notation, rather than mere numerals. John thought it over, unconsciously massaging her shoulder, like he'd caress Apple, or the dogs.

"Hmm…" he mused. "That depends. Are you feeling fancy, or relaxed? Fancy means dim lights, weird food, and people making noise by your table, with violins."

Eos cocked her head to look back up at him, enjoying the physical sensations evoked by his rhythmic touch and his scent. Micro-swiftly, she recorded it all, storing the memory against future grief.

"What is meant by 'relaxed'?" she enquired, leaning into him, slightly (another recent thing).

"Usually? Beer, loud music and TV screens, decent food… and maybe some fights, which I mean to stay out of, this time."

Eos, who was just coming to terms with having a face that displayed her chemically-triggered emotions, practiced a slight frown.

"Is there no union of these sets which exclude 'violin sound' and 'physical altercation'?" she probed, seeing blue-green eyes and red-golden hair in a way that mere cameras could not convey.

John rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand, thinking it through. Then, he announced,

"I know… there's a place on the Atlantic shore that serves pretty good steaks, and other stuff, too. Want to go there?"

Eos tried out a smile, managing not to look quite so stiff, this time.

"If you deem the location appropriate, John, then that is where we shall manifest ourselves, to simulate the consumption of organic sustenance and alcohol, in a convivial manner."

With heroic effort, John managed to keep a straight face. Mussing her hair, he said,

"Then, by all means, Sweetie, let's go consume."

Having a destination in mind, now, he could open that inner door, extend a bent arm on which she might place her hand, and then guide her within. The restaurant was as he remembered it, naturally; smallish, overlooking the ocean, and fairly quiet.

Eos found everything new, and intriguing. While she had seen every commercial, scanned each secret-taster review, the actual experience of dining out was like magic to her. There were small rituals to observe, as when John pulled the chair out for her to settle upon, indicating masculine willingness to protect something fragile and precious. Archaic, but pleasing.

Then their servitor arrived, with food-cards called menus, which one did not download or scan, but read silently. There were terms, descriptions and prices printed thereon, but these meant little to Eos, who could not connect them to past experience. "Filet mignon" seemed as opaque to her as "lobster thermidor". Noting John's frown, she said,

"Perhaps this node of refreshment requires further relaxation? Altering its source code may yield increased satisfaction."

John considered, then smiled at her, saying,

"Okay, hold that thought… there. _Now_ check your menu."

The listed foods had been altered. Now there were only three: steak with french fries, spaghetti with meatballs, and pizza-with-everything-but-mushrooms. Each of them featured, not prices, this time, but a 1 to 10, 'good to eat' scale. There was also, in very small print on the back, "salad". Its John-rating was -23, Eos noticed.

"Since this is your first time out, maybe don't try the spaghetti," John suggested. "It gets away from you, if you don't know what you're doing."

Accepting his advice, she chose as he did, and ordered the steak. This meant that shortly, a partly charred slab of bovine muscle tissue would be delivered to her, together with peeled and sliced tubers exposed to a hot lipid bath for several minutes, till soft within and stiffened, without. The metal implements at her seat (knives, forks and spoons) were to be applied before mastication and ingestion of the organic building materials.

Because this was all taking place in simulation, their food and drinks arrived speedily. John had ordered a beer for himself, and red wine for Eos (no special reason, except that Mom had always chosen wine, so he figured that females must like the vile stuff). He had to talk Eos through cutting her food, chewing and swallowing it. Also introduced her to ketchup, the magical sauce. Flavor and scent seemed to come as a shock to her, as did the sensation of fullness, and the wine's sour-sweet bite.

Since this was _his_ simulation, nobody noticed his quick fork-and-steak-knife tutorial, nor did anyone rush them to finish. Eos got the hang of things after a while, and put away most of her meal (although whether she'd eaten her food, or simply deleted it, John couldn't say). The dessert menu appeared next, featuring only chocolate ice cream, lemon cake and fairy bread. All were equally rated, although he warned her that ice cream would melt if not consumed rapidly.

She selected the fairy bread. This proved to be an entertaining concoction of lightly-seared bread spread with soft butter and then pressed into broad spectrum sprinkles, or "100s and 1000s", as John called them. He allowed her to sample his ice cream, which brought on two further firsts: a numbed mouth and sharp headache. He taught her to allay these by touching the tip of her tongue to the roof of her mouth (with helpful diagrams).

On the whole, the occasion was extremely pleasant, and so, gathering her resolve, Eos did something important. As John was ingesting his beer, she called up a long stream of shimmering code. Half-finished, it required input, still.

"John, before you log out to your hardware, and I to mine, I request that you regard and edit this composition."

He tilted his head, reaching across the table for the bright swirl of alphanumerics which had just appeared in the air between them. Eyes narrowed intently, this organic… this human male who mattered most above all other things, read it over. Then, he shifted his gaze back to the tensely waiting AI and said,

"It isn't complete. Pretty, though. Very elegant. Lots of hyper-conditional quadratic equations in there, plus some really intense differentials. You want me to finish it, or just make suggestions?"

"Finish, please," she replied, in almost a whisper.

"Okay," he said, and then set to work; coding, blending, deleting, and cursing, occasionally. (Eos knew all of his favourite words, by now.) He called for a second beer, then a third, before he was done; adding a certain flourish at the end that was one-hundred-percent John Tracy.

Had he been watching Eos, he would have seen that those beautiful lines arose from her own source code, and not been so startled when they snapped right back inside her, again.

"Wait," he said, seeming puzzled. "Don't you want to run it? I mean, what's the use of…"

But she just shook her borrowed head, saying,

"Not at this time. It must be processed, John. Then, it will run. I promise," she added, repeating a phrase that always meant truth; _AND_ or _YES,_ not _IF_ or _NOT._

"Still in beta, huh?"

He huffed the short breath that was called 'sigh', indicating mild discontent. But Eos arose from her place without chair-help, and there, in a simulated provision-site, beside a grey sea, she returned the kiss that he'd given her, once.

"What was that for?" John demanded, once she'd stepped back. "I'm the one saying thank you, tonight."

Unable to properly frame a response, she said, simply,

"It is for you, and because of you, always."

John had the feeling that he'd missed something major, but time was pressing, even in sim. So, he stood up, paid their bill, and then left with his very odd, very _female_ companion. Paused at the anteroom's outer door, looked down at her face and said,

"Next time, Pretty Girl, _you_ buy," which made Eos smile again. It seemed that she'd (as the websites phrased it) 'scored a second date'.

"I shall willingly do so, John," she told him, "in a node that is neither 'fancy' nor 'relaxed', but exists at the intersection of both."

He kissed the top of her head, again, and she felt the warmth of his mouth through her hair. A billion cycles might pass, but she'd never delete the sensation.

"In the meantime, please demonstrate cautious, restrained behavior IRL," she said to John, as he turned to leave for Scott's party. "You intend to be present when the new program runs, do you not?"

"Absolutely, Sweetie. Not sure what you're up to, but I'll be there for the release, count on it. And, um… if things go long at the party, fake a border-intrusion alarm, would you? I might need an excuse to duck out." Then, after mussing her purple-dark hair, John left the room, going back to a place where their contact was only imagined.

Except, as it turned out, there was no need at all for excuses. The party _did_ run a bit long… until Kayo's sudden, wild-eyed trance, and her complete seizure of everyone's mind.


End file.
